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Technical  and  Bibliographic  Notas/Notoa  tachniquts  at  bibliographiquat 


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et  de  haut  an  bas,  en  prenant  la  nombre 
d'imagas  nAcessaira.  Las  diagrammas  suivants 
illustrent  la  mAthoda. 


1 

2 

3 

1 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

THIS  MORTAL  COIL 


A  NOYEL 


BY 


GEANT    ALLEK 


»*  I 


AUTHOR  OF    "  BABYLON,"    "  FOR   MAMIE's   SAKE,"   ETC. 


NEW  YORK 
D.   APPLETON    AND    COMPANY 

1889 


^IHH 


f/?^^^/f-iT47     '^■^ 


Authorized  Ediiion. 


3 
X 


x: 
x: 

s 
x: 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTRR 

I.  Bohemia 

II.  Down  Stream 

III.  Arcadia 

IV.  JJuridan's  Ass 

V.  Elective  Affinities 

VI.  Which  Lady? 

VII.  Friends  in  Council 

VIII.  The  Roads  divide  ... 

IX.  HiGH-WATKB 

X.  Shuffling  it  off     ... 

XI.  (Sink  or  Swim?... 

XII.  The  Plan  in  Execution 

XIII.  What  Success?... 

XIV.  Live  ou  Die? 

XV.  The  Plan  extends  itself 

XVI.  From  Information  received  ,, 

XVII.  Breaking  a  Heart 

XVIII.  Complications 

XIX.  Au  Rendezvous  des  Bons  Camarade'J 

XX.  Events  march 

XXI.  Clearing  the  Decks 

XXII.  Holy  Matrimony    ... 

XXin.  Under  the  Palm-trees  ... 

XXIV.  The  Balance  quivers 

XXV.  Clouds  on  the  Horizon 

XXVL  Befortimo  Progress  „. 


PAOI 

1 

10 
...      17 

2.5 
...      32 

42 
...       52 

56 
...       61 

69 
...       79 

85 

•  •  t  «/  M 

99 
...     106 

111 
...     113 

123 
...     i:SJ 

141 
...     147 

155 
...     161 

168 
...     174 

182 


3170258 


iv 


CONTENTS, 


CHAPTKR  PA08 

XXVII.  Art  at  Home           ...           ...  ...           ...     Ib8 

XXVIII.  Kehkaksal          ...           ...  ...           ...           10.') 

XXIX.  Accidents  will  haiticn          ...  ...           ...    203 

XXX.  The  Baud  in  Haknesij    ...  ...           ...           210 

XXXI.  Coming  Uolnd           ...           ...  ...           ...    218 

XXXII.  On  Tutal           223 

XXXIII.  Av  Abtistio  Event  ...            ...  ...  ...    2:{0 

XXXIV.  The  Strands  diuw  Closer  ...  ...           242 

XXXV.  Ketribution              ...           ...  •       ...            ...    248 

XXXVI.  The  Other  Side  of  the  Sim  li>  ...  ...           257 

XXXVII.  PuoviNO  HIS  Cash      ...           ...  ...           ...    263 

XXXVIII.  Gn)8T  OR  Woman?  ...  26;) 

XXXIX.  Afteh  Long  Grief  and  Pain«  ...            ...    275 

XL.  At  Rest  at  Last            ...  ...           ...           282 

XLI.  Eediviva!    ...            ...            ...  ...            ...    286 

XLII.  Face  to  Face    ...           ...  ...            ...           2!)4 

XLIII.  At  Monte  Carlo     ...           ...  ...           ...    301 

XLIV.  "Ladies  and  Gentlemen,  make  your  Game!"       JjOjj 

XLV.  Pactolus  indeed!     ...           ...  ...           ...    315 

XLVL  The  Turn  op  the  Tide  ...  ...            ...           320 

XLVIL  Fortune  of  War      ...           ...  ...           ...    326 

XLVIIL  At  Bay               ...            ...  ...            ...            3:{2 

XLIX.  The  Unforeseen       ...           ...  ...           ...    3.37 

L.  The  Cap  Martin  Catastrophe  ..           ...           312 

lil.  Next  or  Kin  wanted            ...  ...           ...    347 

LI  I.  The  Tanqle  besolyes  itselv  ...           ...           853 


THIS    MORTAL   COIL. 


CHAPTER  L 


BOHEMIA. 

Whoever  knows  Bohemian  London,  knows  the  smoking-room 
of  the  Cheyne  Row  Club.  No  moro  comfortable  or  congenial 
divan  exists  anywhere  between  Regent  Circus  and  Hyde  Park 
Corner  than  that  chosen  paradise  of  unrecognized  genius.  The 
Cheyne  Row  Club  is  not  large,  indeed,  but  it  prides  itself  upon 
being  extremely  select — too  select  to  admit  upon  its  list  of 
members  peers,  politicians,  country  gentlemen,  or  inhabitants 
of  eligible  family  residences  in  Mayfair  or  Belgravia.  Two 
qualifications  are  understood  to  be  indispensable  in  candidates 
for  membership :  they  must  be  truly  great,  and  they  must  be 
unsuccessful.  Possession  of  a  commodious  suburban  villa  ex- 
cludes ipso  facto.  The  Club  is  emphatically  the  head-quarters 
of  the  great  Bohemian  clan;  the  gathering-place  of  unhung 
artists,  unread  novelists,  unpaid  poets,  and  unheeded  social  and 
political  reformers  generally.  Hither  flock  all  the  choicest 
spirits  of  the  age  during  that  probationary  period  when  society, 
in  its  slow  and  lumbering  fashion,  is  spending  twenty  years 
in  discovering  for  itself  the  bare  fact  of  their  distinguished 
existence.  Here  Maudle  displays  his  latest  designs  to  Postle- 
thwaite's  critical  and  admiring  eye;  here  Postlethwaite  pours 
his  honeyed  sonnets  into  Maudle's  receptive  and  sympathetic 
tympanum.  Everybody  who  is  anybody  has  once  been  a 
member  of  the  "  dear  old  Cheyne  Row : "  Royal  Academicians 
and  Cabinet  Ministers  and  Society  Journalists  and  successful 
poets  still  speak  with  lingering  pride  and  affection  of  the  days 
when  they  lunched  there,  as  yet  undiscovered,  on  a  single  chop 
and  a  glass  of  draught  claret  by  no  means  of  the  daintiest. 


THIS  MORTAL   COIL. 


Not  that  tho  Club  cnn  nnmber  any  of  them  now  on  its 
existing  roll-call :  tho  Clioyne  How  in  for  prospcctivo  celebrity 
only;  accomplished  facts  transfer  themselves  at  once  to  a 
statelier  site  in  Pull  Mall  near  the  Duke  of  York's  Column. 
Bising  merit  frequents  the  Tavern,  as  scoffers  profanely  term 
it:  risen  greatness  basks  rather  on  tho  lordly  stuffed  couches 
of  Waterloo  Place.  No  man,  it  has  been  acutely  observed, 
remains  a  Bohemian  when  ho  has  daughters  to  marry.  The 
pure  and  blameless  ratepayer  avoids  Prague.  As  soon  as  Smith 
necomes  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer,  as  soon  as  Brown  takes 
silk,  as  soon  as  Bobinson  is  elected  an  Associate,  as  soon  as 
Uompkins  publishes  his  pojiular  novel,  they  all  incontinently 
with  one  accord  desert  the  lesser  institution  in  the  Piccadilly 
byway,  and  pass  on  their  names,  their  honours,  their  hats,  and 
their  subscriptions  to  the  dignified  repose  of  the  Athenteum. 
For  them,  the  favourite  haunt  of  judge  and  bishop :  for  the 
young,  the  active,  tho  struggling,  and  the  incipient,  the  chop 
and  claret  of  the  less  distinguished  but  more  lively  caravanserai 
by  the  Green  Park  purlieus. 

In  the  smoking-room  of  this  eminent  and  unsuccessful 
Bohemian  society,  at  the  tag-end  of  a  London  season,  one  warm 
evening  in  a  hot  July,  Hugh  Massinger,  of  the  Utter  Bar,  sat 
lazily  by  the  big  bow  window,  turning  over  tho  pages  of  the 
last  number  of  the  Charing  Cross  Heview. 

That  he  was  truly  grc  at,  nobody  could  deny.  He  was  in  very 
fact  a  divine  bard,  or,  to  be  more  strictly  accurate,  the  author 
of  a  pleasing  and  melodious  volume  of  minor  poetry.  Even 
away  from  the  Cheyne  Row  Club,  none  but  the  most  remote 
of  country-cousins — say  from  the  wilder  parts  of  Cornwall  or 
the  crofter-clad  recesses  of  the  Isle  of  Skye — could  have  doubted 
for  a  moment  the  patent  fact  that  Hugh  Massinger  was  a  dis- 
tinguished (though  unknown)  poet  of  tho  antique  school,  so 
adn)iraK  did  he  fit  his  part  in  life  as  to  features,  dress,  and 
general  appearance.  Indeed,  malicious  persons  were  wont  at 
times  unkindly  to  insinuate  that  Hugh  was  a  poet,  not  becauf« 
he  found  in  himself  any  special  aptitude  for  stringing  verses  or 
building  the  lofty  rhyme,  but  because  his  face  and  bearing 
imperatively  compelled  him  to  adopt  tho  thankless  profession 
of  bard  in  self-justification  and  self-defence.  This  was  ill- 
natured,  and  it  was  also  untrue;  for  Hugh  Massinger  had 
lisped  in  numbers — at  least  in  penny  ones — ever  since  he  was 
able  to  lisp  in  print  at  all.  Elizabethan  or  nothing,  he  had 
taken  to  poetry  almost  from  his  very  cradle ;  and  had  astonished 
his  father  at  sixteen  by  a  rhymed  version  of  an  ode  of  Horace, 
worthy  the  inspiration  of  the  great  Dr.  Watts  himself,  and  not, 
perhaps,  far  below  the  poetic  standard  of  Mr.  Martin  Farquhar 
Tupper.    At  Oxford  he  had  perpetrated  a  cai)ital  Newdigate; 


DOnEMIA.  8 

and  two  years  aftor  pnining  his  fellowship  at  Oriel,  ho  hnd 
published  anonymously,  in  parchment  covers,  "Echoes  from 
Callimachus,  and  other  Poems" — in  tho  stylo  of  tho  early 
romantic  school — which  hai  fairly  succeeded  by  careful  nursing 
in  attaining  the  dignity  of  a  Kecond  edititm  undiir  his  own  nunio. 
So  that  Mnssingor's  claim  to  the  bodality  of  tho  cral't  whoso 
workmen  are  "born  not  made"  might  perhnpa  bo  considered 
as  of  the  genuine  order,  and  not  entirely  dependent,  as  cyuica 
averred,  upon  his  long  hair,  his  pensive  eyes,  his  dark-brown 
clu  ek,  or  the  careless  twist  of  his  necktie  and  his  shirt-collar. 

Nevertheless,  even  in  these  minor  details  of  the  poetical 
character,  it  must  candidly  be  confessed  that  Hugh  Massinger 
outstripped  by  several  points  many  of  the  more  recognized 
bards  wliose  popular  works  are  published  in  regulation  green- 
cloth  octavos,  and  whose  hats  and  cloaks,  of  unique  build,  adora 
with  their  presence  the  vestibule  pegs  of  the  Athenroura  itself. 
JTe  went  back  to  the  traditions  of  the  youth  of  our  century. 
The  undistinguished  author  of  "Echoes  from  Callimachus" 
was  tall  and  pale,  and  a  trifle  Byronio.  That  his  face  was 
beautiful,  extremely  beautiful,  even  a  hostile  reviewer  in  the 
organ  of  another  clique  could  hardly  venture  seriously  to  deny : 
those  large  grey  eyes,  that  long  black  hair,  that  exquisitely 
chiselled  and  delicate  mouth,  would  alone  have  siitticed  to 
attract  attention  and  extort  admiration  anywhere  in  the  uni- 
verse, or  at  the  very  least  in  the  solar  system. 

Hugh  Massinger,  in  short,  was  (like  Coleridge)  a  noticeable 
man.  It  would  have  been  impossible  to  pass  him  by,  even  in 
a  crowded  street,  without  a  hurried  glance  of  observation  and 
pleasure  at  his  singularly  graceful  and  noble  face.  He  looked 
and  moved  every  inch  a  poet;  delicate,  refined,  cultivated, 
expressive,  and  sicklied  o'er  with  that  pale  cast  of  thought 
which  modern  lestheticism  so  cruelly  demands  as  a  proof  of 
attachment  from  her  highest  votaries.  Yet  at  tho  same  time, 
in  spite  of  deceptive  appearances  to  the  contrary,  he  was  strong 
in  muscular  strength:  a  wiry  man,  thin,  but  well  knit:  one 
of  those  fallacious,  uncanny,  long-limbed  creatures,  who  can 
scale  an  Alp  or  tramp  a  score  or  so  of  miles  before  breakfast, 
while  looking  as  if  a  short  stroll  through  the  Park  would  kill 
them  outright  with  sheer  exhaustion.  Altogether,  a  typical 
poet  of  the  old-fashioned  school,  that  dark  and  handsome 
Italianosque  man:  and  as  he  sat  there  carelessly,  with  tho 
paper  held  before  him,  in  an  unstudied  attitude  of  natural 
grace,  many  a  painter  might  have  done  worse  than  choose  the 
author  of  "Echoes  from  Callimachus"  for  the  subject  of  a 
pretty  Academy  pot-boiler. 

So  Warren  Relf,  the  unknown  marine  artist,  thought  to  him- 
self in  his  armchair  oppodite,  as  he  raised  his  eyes  by  chauco 


Tins  MORTAL  COIL, 


i; 


t ' 


from  the  etchinp-B  in  the  Portfolio^  and  Rlancorl  ucross  casually 
with  a  hasty  look  at  the  undiscovered  poet. 

"Has  the  Charing  Cross  reviewed  jour  new  volimie  yet?"  he 
a^ked  politely,  his  glance  meeting  Masainger'n  while  ho  flung 
down  tne  paper  on  the  table  beside  him. 

The  poet  rose  and  stood  with  his  hands  behind  his  back  in 
an  easy  posture  before  tlie  emi)ty  fireplace.  "  I  Itcliove  it  has 
deigned  to  assign  me  half  a  column  of  judicious  abuse,"  ho 
answered,  half  yawning,  with  an  assumption  of  profound  in- 
dilTcrcnce  and  contempt  for  the  Charing  Cross  Ifeview  and  all 
its  ideas  or  opinions  collectively.  "To  tell  you  tlie  truth,  the 
subject's  one  that  doesn't  interest  me.  In  tlie  first  place,  I  care 
very  little  for  my  own  verses.  And  in  the  second  place,  I  don't 
care  at  all  for  reviewers  generally,  or  for  the  Charing  Cron» 
Unarler  and  its  kind  in  particular.  I  disbelieve  altogether  in 
reviews,  in  fact.  Familiarity  breeds  contempt.  To  be  quite 
candid,  I've  written  too  many  of  them." 

"If  criticism  in  literature's  like  criticism  in  art,"  the  young 
painter  rejoined,  smiling,  "why,  with  the  one  usual  polite  ex- 
ception of  yourself,  Massinger,  I  can't  b«y  I  think  very  much 
of  the  critics. — But  what  do  you  mean,  I  should  like  to  know, 
by  saying  you  don't  care  for  your  own  verses  ?  Surely  no  man 
can  do  anything  great,  in  literature  or  art— or  in  shoe-blacking 
or  pig-sticking,  if  it  comes  to  that — unless  he  thoroughly  believes 
in  his  own  vocation." 

Massinger  laughed  a  musical  laugh.  "In  shoe-blacking  or 
pig-sticking,"  he  said,  with  a  delicate  curl  of  his  thin  lips, 
*'  that's  no  doubt  true ;  but  in  verse-making,  query  ?  Who  on 
earth  at  the  present  day  could  even  pretend  to  himself  to 
believe  in  poetry?  Time  was,  I  dare  say— though  I'm  by  no 
means  sure  of  it— when  the  bard,  hoary  old  impostor,  was  a 
sort  of  prophet,  and  went  about  the  world  with  a  harp  in  his 
hand,  and  a  profound  conviction  in  his  innocent  old  heart  that 
when  he  made  'Sapphic'  rhyme  to  'traffic,'  or  produced  a 
sonnet  on  the  theme  of '  Catullus,'  *  lull  us,'  and  '  cull  us,'  he  wa'^ 
really  and  truly  enriching  humanity  with  a  noble  gift  of  divine 
poesy.  If  the  amiable  old  humbug  could  actually  bring  himself 
to  believe  in  his  soul  that  stringing  together  fourteen  lines  into 
an  indifFereut  piece,  or  balancing  'mighty'  to  chime  with 
•Aphrodite,'  in  best  Swinbumian  slyle,  was  fulfilling  bis 
appointed  function  in  the  scheme  of  the  universe,  I'm  sure  I 
should  be  the  last  to  interfere  with  the  agreeable  delusion  under 
which  (like  the  gentlemen  from  Argos  in  Horace)  he  must  have 
been  labouring.  It's  so  delightful  to  believe  in  anything,  that 
for  my  own  part  I  wouldn't  attempt  to  insinuate  doubts  into 
the  mind  of  a  contented  Buddhist  or  a  devout  worshipper  of 
Mumbo  Jumbo." 


BOHEMIA.  5 

"But  Buroly  you  look  upon  yourself  as  a  reaction  apainst  this 
modern  school  of  Swinbiirniaus  and  ballai-mongora,  dou't  you?  " 
Kulf  said,  with  a  shru)?. 

"  Of  course  I  do.  Byron's  my  man.  I  po  hack  to  the  original 
divine  inspiration  of  the  romantic  school.  It*s  simpler,  and 
it's  easier.  But  what  of  that?  Our  method's  all  the  same  at 
bottom,  after  all.  Who  in  London  in  this  nineteenth  century 
can  for  a  moment  aflfect  to  believe  in  tiio  etficacry  of  poetry? 
Look  at  this  last  now  volume  of  my  own,  for  example  1 — You 
won't  look  at  it,  of  course,  I'm  well  awn^-o,  Jbut  that's  no  matter: 
nobody  ever  does  look  at  my  immortal  works,  I'm  only  too 
profoundly  conscious.  I  cut  them  myself  in  a  dusty  copy  at 
all  the  libraries,  in  order  to  create  a  delusive  impression  on  the 
mind  of  the  public  that  I've  had  at  leant  a  solitary  reader.  But 
let  that  pass.  Look,  metaphorically,  I  mean,  and  not  literally, 
at  this  last  new  volume  of  mine!  How  do  you  think  a  divine 
bard  does  it?  Simply  by  taking  a  series  of  rhymes — 'able,' 
and  '  stable,'  and  '  taolo,'  and  '  cable ; '  *  Mabel,'  and  *  Babel,*  ami 
'  fable,'  and  'gable* — and  weaving  them  all  together  cunningly 
by  a  set  form  into  a  Procrustean  mould  to  make  up  a  poem. 
Perhaps  'gable,'  which  you've  mentally  fixed  upon  for  tho 
fourth  lino,  won't  suit  the  sense.  Very  well,  then;  you  must 
do  your  best  to  twist  something  reaHonabU;,  or  at  least  inoflfen- 
sive,  out  of  'sable*  or  'label,'  or  'Cain  and  Ab( !,'  or  ftoythiug 
else  that  will  make  up  the  rhyme  and  complete  t'l  «  ii/f ' ' '  " 

"  And  is  that  your  plan,  Massii  ojcrV 

"Yes,  all  this  last  lot  of  mine  are  di  -^o  like  that:  Just  hoicf^ 
rimes— 1  adir.it  the  fact;  for  what's  all  ^J'lntry  but  houtn  rime» 
in  the  highest  perfection?  Mechanical,  mocliSf;'  '1.  I  draw 
up  a  lot  of  lists  of  rhymes  beforehand :  *  kirtle,'  ana  '  rnyrtl'',' 
and  *  hurtle,*  and  'turtle'  {i\utm  ttro  all  original);  'pu;(l,',V 
♦-^gean,*  'plebeian,'  and  'Tean'  (those  are  fairly  new);  'battle,'* 
and  'cattle,'  and  ' prattle,*  i.  id  'rattle'  (those  are  ul'  .ommon- 
place);  and  then,  when  the  divine  afflatus  seizes  u^),  1  tako  out 
the  lists  and  con  them  over,  and  weave  them  up  into  an  "*- 
dying  song  for  future  generations  to  go  wild  about  and  ©v  [^- 
ment  upon.  'What  profound  thought,*  my  unborn  Malojiui* 
and  Furni vails  and  Leos  will  ask  confidingly  in  their  leaniod 
editions,  'did  the  immortal  bard  mean  to  convey  by  this  obscure 
couplet?* — I'll  tell  you  in  confidence.  He  meant  to  convey  the 
abstruse  idea  that  'passenger'  was  the  only  English  word  he 
could  find  in  the  dictionary  at  all  like  a  rhyme  to  the  name  of 
'  Ma?singer.' " 

Warren  Relf  looked  up  at  him  a  little  uneasily.    "  I  don't  like 

+0  hear  you  run  down  poetry  like  that,"  he  said,  with  an  evident 

age  of  disapprobation.    "  I'm  not  a  poet  myself,  of  course ;  but 

b  ill  I'm  BOft  H;  isn't  all  a  mere  matter  of  rhymes  and  refrains, 


■p—^. 


^ 


THIS  MORTAL   COIL, 


1 


of  epithets  and  prettinesses.  What  tonchps  onr  hearts  Ifea 
deeper  than  mere  expression,  I'm  certain.  It  lies  in  the  very 
core  and  fibre  of  the  man.  There  are  passages  even  in  your 
own  poems — though  you're  a  great  deal  too  cynical  to  admit 
it  now — that  came  straight  out  of  the  depths  of  your  own  heart, 
1  venture  to  conjecture — those  *  Lines  on  a  Lock  of  Hair/  for 
example. — Al:a,  cynic!  there  I  touched  you  on  the  raw. — But 
if  you  think  so  lightly  of  poetry  as  a  pi^rsuit,  as  you  say,  I 
wonder  why  you  ever  came  to  take  to  it." 

•*  Take  to  it,  my  dear  fellow !  What  an  Arcadian  idea !  As 
if  men  nowadays  chose  their  sphere  in  life  deliberately.  Why, 
■what  on  earth  makes  any  of  us  ever  take  to  anything,  I  should 
like  to  know,  in  this  miserable  workaday  modern  world  of  ours  ? 
Because  we're  pimply  pitchforked  into  it  by  circumstances. 
Does  the  crossinjr-sweeper  sweep  crossings,  do  you  suppose,  for 
example,  by  pure  preference  for  the  profession  of  a  sweep? 
Does  the  milkman  get  up  at  five  in  the  morning  because,  he  sees 
in  the  purveying  of  skim-milk  to  babes  and  sucklings  a  useful, 
important,  and  even  necessary  industry  to  the  rising  generation 
of  this  great  Metropolis  ?  Does  the  dustman  empty  the  domestic 
bin  out  of  disinterested  regard  for  public  sanitation?  or  the 
engine-driver  da«h  through  rain  and  snow  in  a  drear-nighted 
December  like  a  Comtist  prophet,  out  of  high  and  noble  enthu- 
siasm of  humanity  ?  "  He  snapped  his  fingers  with  an  emphatic 
negative.— "We  don't  choose  our  places  in  life  at  all,  my  dear 
boy,"  he  went  on  after  a  pause :  "  we  get  tumbled  into  them  by 
pure  caprice  of  circumstances.  If  I'd  chosen  mine,  instead  of 
strictly  meditating  the  thankless  Muse,  I'd  certainly  have 
adopted  the  exalted  profession  of  a  landed  proprietor,  with  the 
pleasing  duty  of  receiving  my  rents  (by  proxy)  once  every 
quarter,  and  spending  them  royally  with  becoming  magnificence, 
in  noble  ways,  like  the  Greek  gentleman  one  reads  about  in 
Aristotle.  1  always  admired  that  amiable  Greek  geutlemnn — 
the  megaloprepcs,  I  think  Aristotle  calls  hira.  His  berth  would 
suit  me  down  to  the  ground.  He  had  nothing  at  all  of  any  sort 
to  do,  and  he  did  it  most  gracefully  with  princely  generosity  on 
a  sufficient  income." 

"  But  you  imi8t  write  poetry  for  something  or  other,  Mnssin- 
ger ;  for  if  it  isn't  rude  to  make  the  suggestion,  you  can  hardly 
write  it,  you  know,  for  a  livelihood." 

Massingtr's  dark  face  flushed  visibly.  "I  write  for  fame,"  ho 
answered  majestically,  with  a  lordly  wave  of  his  long  thin  hand. 
"  For  glory — for  honour — for  time — for  eternity.  Or,  to  be  more 
precisely  definite,  if  you  prefer  the  phrase,  for  filthy  lucre.  In 
the  coarse  and  crude  phraseology  of  political  economists,  poetry 
takes  rank  nowadays,  I  humbly  conceive,  as  a  long  investment. 
I'm  a  journalist  by  trade— a  mere  journeyman  journaMst;  the 


BOHEMIA.  t 

gnshing  penny-a  linnr  of  a  futile  and  demoralized  T.ondon  press. 
But  1  have  a  soul  witiun  r.ie  alwve  penny-a-lining ;  I  aspire 
ultimately  to  a  pound  a  word.  1  don't  mean  to  live  and  die  in 
Grub  Street.  My  soul  looks  forward  to  immortality,  and  a 
footman  in  livery.  Now,  when  once  a  man  has  got  pitchforked 
by  fate  into  the  rank  and  file  of  contemporary  journalism,  there 
are  only  two  ways  possible  for  him  to  extricate  himself  with 
peace  and  honour  from  his  unfortunate  position.  One  way  is  to 
write  a  successful  novel.  That's  the  easiest,  quickest,  and  most 
immediate  short-cut  from  Grub  Street  to  Eaton  Place  and  afflu- 
ence that  I  know  of  anywhere.  But  unhappily  it's  crowded, 
immensely  overcrowded— vehicular  traflfio  for  the  present  en- 
tirely suspended.  Therefore,  the  only  possible  alternative  is 
to  take  up  poetry.  The  Muse  must  descend  to  feel  the  pulse  of 
the  market.  I'm  conscious  of  the  soul  of  song  within  mo ;  that 
is  to  say,  I  can  put  *  Myrrha  *  to  rhyme  with  *  Pyrrha,'  and 
alliterate  jos  and  5s  and  wa  with  any  man  living  (bar  Algernon) 
in  all  England.  Now,  poetry's  a  very  long  road  round,  I  admit 
— like  going  from  Kensington  to  the  City  by  Willesden  Junc- 
tion ;  but  in  the  end,  if  properly  worked,  it  lands  yon  at  last  by 
a  circuitous  route  in  tame  and  respectability.  To  be  Poet 
Laureate  is  eminently  respectable.  A  man  can  live  on  journal- 
ism meanwhile ;  but  if  he  keeps  pegging  away  at  his  Pegasus  in 
his  spare  moments,  without  intermission,  like  a  costermonger  at 
his  donkey,  Pegasus  will  raise  him  after  many  days  to  the  top 
of  Parnassus,  where  he  can  build  himself  a  commodious  family 
residence,  lighted  throughout  with  electric  lights,  and  command- 
ing a  magnificent  view  in  every  direction  over  the  Vale  of 
Tempe  and  the  surrounding  country.  Tennyson's  done  it 
already  at  Aldworth;  why  shouldn't  1,  too,  do  it  in  time  on 
Parnassus  ?  " 

Pelf  smiled  dubiously,  and  knocked  the  ash  off  his  cigar  into 
the  Japanese  tray  that  stood  by  his  side.  "  Then  you  look  upon 
poetry  merely  as  an  ultimate  means  of  making  money  ?  "  he 
suggested,  with  a  deprecatory  look. 

"  Money !  Not  money  only,  my  dear  fellow,  but  position, 
reputation,  recognition,  honour.  Does  any  man  work  for  any- 
thing else  ?    Any  man,  I  mean,  but  cobblers  and  enthusiasts  V  " 

"  Well,  I  don't  know.  I  may  bo  an  enthusiast  myself,"  Keif 
answered  slowly;  "but  I  certainly  do  work  at  art  to  a  great 
extent  for  art's  sake,  because  I  really  love  and  admire  and 
delight  in  it.  Of  course  I  should  like  to  make  money  too, 
within  reasonable  limits — enough  to  keep  myself  and  my  people 
in  a  modest  sort  of  way,  without  the  footman  or  the  eligible 
family  residence.  Not  that  I  want  to  be  successful,  either: 
from  what  I've  seen  of  successful  men,  I  incline  to  believe  that 
success  as  a  rule  has  a  very  degenerating  effect  upon  character. 


i; 


8 


THIS  MOBTAL   COIL. 


Literature,  science,  and  art  thrive  best  in  a  breezy,  bracing  air. 
I  never  aim  at  being  a  successful  man  myself;  and  if  I  go  on  as 
I'm  doing  now,  I  shall  no  doubt  succeed  in  not  succeeding. 
But  apart  from  the  money  and  the  livelihood  altogether,  I  love 
my  work  as  an  occupation.  I  like  doing  it ;  and  I  like  to  see 
myself  growing  stronger  and  freer  at  it  every  day." 

"  That's  all  very  well  for  you,"  Massinger  replied,  with  another 
expansive  wave  of  his  graceful  hand.  "  You're  doing  work  you 
care  for,  as  I  play  lawn-tennis,  for  a  personal  amusement.  I 
can  sympathize  with  you  there.  I  once  felt  the  same  about 
poetry  myself.  But  that  was  a  long  time  ago :  those  days  are 
dead — dead — hopelessly  dead,  as  dead  as  Mad  Margaret's  affi- 
davit. I'm  a  sceptic  now:  my  faith  in  verse  has  evaporated 
utterly.  Have  I  not  seen  the  public  devour  ten  successive 
editions  of  the  *Epic  of  Washerwomen,'  or  something  of  the 
sort  ?  Have  I  not  seen  them  reject  the  good  and  cleave  unto 
the  evil,  like  the  children  of  Israel  wandering  in  the  Wilderness  ? 
I  know  now  that  the  world  is  hollow,  and  that  my  doll  is  stuffed 
with  sawdust. — Let's  quit  the  subject.  It  turns  me  always  into 
a  gloomy  pessimiet — What  are  you  going  to  do  with  yourself 
this  summer  V  " 

"Me?  Oh,  just  the  usual  thing,  I  suppose.  Going  down 
in  my  tub  to  paint  sweet  mudbauks  off  the  coast  of  Suffolk." 

*'  Suffolk  to  wit !  I  see  the  finger  of  fate  in  that  1  W  hy,  that's 
just  where  I'm  going  too.  1  mean  to  take  six  or  eight  weeks' 
holiday,  if  a  poor  drudge  of  a  journalist  can  ever  be  said  to 
indulge  in  holidays  at  all— with  books  for  review,  and  proofs  for 
correction,  and  editorial  communications  for  consideration, 
always  weighing  like  a  ton  of  lead  upon  his  imhappy  breast : 
and  I  propose  to  bury  myself  alive  up  to  the  chin  in  some 
obscure,  out-of-the-way  Suffolk  village  they  call  Whitestrand. — 
Have  you  ever  heard  of  it  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  know  it  well,"  Eelf  answered,  with  a  smile  of  delightful 
reminiscence.  "  It's  grand  for  mud.  I  go  there  painting  agaia 
and  again.  You'd  call  it  the  funniest  little  stranded  old-world 
village  you  ever  came  across  anywhere  in  England.  Nothing 
could  be  uglier,  quainter,  or  more  perfectly  charming.  It  lies 
at  the  mouth  of  a  dear  little  muddy  creek,  with  a  funny  old  mill 
for  pumping  the  water  off  the  sunken  meadows;  and  all  around 
for  miles  and  miles  is  one  great  flat  of  sedge  and  sea]unk,  alive 
with  water-birds  and  intersected  with  dikes,  where  the  herons 
fish  all  day  long,  poised  on  one  leg  in  the  middle  of  the  stream 
as  still  as  mice,  exactly  as  if  they  were  sitting  to  Marks  for  their 
portraits." 

"  Ah,  delightful  for  a  painter,  I've  no  doubt,"  Hugh  Massinger 
replied,  half  yawning  to  himself,  "  especially  for  a  painter  to 
whom  mud  and  herons  are  bread  and  butter,  and  brackish  water 


BOHEMIA. 


9 


is  Bass  and  Allsopp ;  but  scarcely,  you'll  admit,  an  attractive 
picture  to  the  inaitistic  public,  among  whom  I  take  the  liberty, 
lor  this  occasion  only,  humbly  to  rank  myself.  I  go  there,  in 
fact,  as  a  martyr  to  principle.  I  live  for  others.  A  member  of 
my  family — not  to  put  too  fine  a  point  upon  it,  a  lady — abides 
for  the  present  moment  at  Whitestrand,  and  believes  herself  to 
be  seized  or  possessed  by  prescriptive  right  of  a  lien  or  claim 
to  a  certain  fixed  aliquot  portion  of  my  time  and  attention. 
I've  never  admitted  the  claim  myself  (being  a  legally-minded 
Boul) ;  but  just  out  of  the  natural  sweetness  of  my  disposition,  I 
go  down  occasionally  (without  prejudice)  to  whatever  part  of 
England  she  may  chance  to  be  inhabiting,  for  the  sake  of  not 
disappointing  her  foregone  expectations,  however  ill-founded, 
and  be  the  same  more  or  less. — You  observe,  I  speak  with  the 
charming  precision  of  the  English  statute-book." 

•'  But  how  do  you  mean  to  get  to  Whitestrand  ?  "  Eelf  asked 
suddenly,  after  a  short  pause.  "It's  a  difiBcult  place  to  reach, 
you  know.  There's  no  station  nearer  than  ten  miles  off,  and 
that  a  country  one,  so  that  when  you  arrive  there,  you  can  get 
no  conveyance  to  take  you  over." 

"  So  my  cousin  gave  me  to  understand.  She  was  kind  enousih 
to  provide  me  witli  minute  instructions  for  her  bookless  wilds. 
I  believe  I'm  to  hire  a  costermonger's  cart  or  something  of  the 
sort  to  convey  my  portmanteau ;  and  I'm  to  get  across  myself 
by  the  aid  of  the  natural  means  of  locomotion  with  which  a 
generous  providence  or  survival  of  the  fittest  has  been  good 
enough  to  endow  me  by  hereditary  transmission.  At  least,  so 
my  cousin  Elsie  instructs  me." 

**  Why  not  come  round  with  me  in  the  tub? "  Eclf  srjgested 
good-humouredly. 

"What?  your  yacht?  Hatherley  was  telling  me  you  were 
the  pvoud  possessor  of  a  ship. — Are  you  going  round  that  way 
any  time  shortly  ?  " 

"  Well,  she's  not  exactly  what  you  call  a  yacht,"  Rclf  replied, 
with  an  apologetic  tinge  in  his  tone  of  voice.  "She's  only  a 
tub,  you  know,  an  open  boat  almost,  with  a  covered  well  and 
just  room  for  three  to  sleep  and  feed  in.  *  A  poor  thing,  but 
mine  own,'  as  Touchstone  says ;  as  broad  as  she's  long,  and  a3 
shallow  as  she's  broad,  and  quite  flat-bottomed,  drawing  so 
little  water  at  a  pinch  that  yoa  can  sail  her  across  an  open 
meadow  when  there's  a  heavy  dew  on. — And  if  you  come,  you'll 
have  to  work  your  passage,  of  course.  I  navigate  her  myself, 
as  captain,  crew,  cabin-boy,  and  passenger,  with  one  other 
painter  fellow  to  share  watches  with  me.  The  fact  is,  I  got  her 
built  as  a  substitute  for  rooms,  because  I  found  it  cheaper  than 
taking  lodgings  at  a  seaside  place  and  hiring  a  rowboat  when- 
ever one  wanted  one.    I  cruise  about  the  English  coast  with  her 


-  -  iij.  nm 


9 


1 


10 


TniS  MORTAL  COIL. 


in  summer;  and  in  the  cold  months,  I  mn  her  round  to  the 
Mediterranean.  And,  besides,  one  can  get  into  such  lovely  little 
side-creeks  and  neglected  channels,  all  full  of  curious  objects  of 
interest,  which  nobody  can  ever  see  in  anything  else.  She's 
a  perfect  treasure  to  a  marine  painter  in  the  mudand-buoy 
business.  But  I  won't  for  a  moment  pretend  to  say  she's  com- 
fortable for  a  landsman.  If  you  come  with  me,  in  fact,  you'll 
have  to  rough  it." 

**  I  love  roughing  it. — How  long  will  it  take  us  to  cruise  round 
to  Whitestrand  V  " 

"Oh,  the  voyage  dc^pends  entirely  upon  the  wind  and  tide. 
Sailing-boats  take  their  own  time.  The  Mwl-Turt/e— that's 
what  I  call  her— doesn't  hurry.  Slie's  lying  now  off  the  Pool  at 
the  Tower,  taking  care  of  herself  in  the  absence  of  all  her  regular 
crew ;  and  Potts,  my  mate,  he's  away  in  the  north,  intending  to 
meet  mo  next  week  at  Lowestoft,  where  my  mother  and  sister 
are  stopping  in  lodgings.  We  can  start  on  our  cruise  whenever 
you  like — say,  if  you  choose,  to-morrow  morning." 

"Thanks,  awfnlly,"  Hugh  answered,  with  a  nod  of  assent. 
"To  tell  you  the  t)'uth,  I  should  like  nothing  better.  It'll  be 
an  experience,  and  the  wise  man  lives  upon  new  experiences. 
Pallas,  you  remember,  in  Tennyson's  *  CEnone,'  recommended  to 
Paris  the  deliberate  cultivation  of  experiences  as  such. — I'll 
certainly  go.  For  my  own  part,  like  Saint  Simon,  I  mean  in  my 
time  to  have  tried  everything.  Though  Saint  Simon,  to  be  sure, 
went  rather  far,  for  I  believe  he  even  took  a  turn  for  a  while  at 
picking  pockets.'* 


! 


;i  ! 


CHAPTER  II. 


DOWN  STREAM. 


Tide  served  next  morning  at  eleven;  and  punctual  to  the 
minute— for,  besides  being  a  poet,  he  prided  himself  on  his 
qualities  as  a  man  of  busmess— Hugh  Massinger  surrendered 
himself  in  due  course  by  previous  appoiutment  on  board  the 
Mud- Turtle  at  the  Pool  by  the  Tower.  Put  his  eyes  were 
heavier  and  redder  than  they  had  seemed  last  night ;  and  his 
wearied  manner  showed  at  once,  by  a  hundred  little  signs,  that 
he  had  devoted  but  small  time  since  Eelf  left  him  to  what  Mr. 
Herbert  Spencer  periphrastically  describes  as  **  reparative  pro- 
cesses." 

The  painter,  attired  for  the  sea  like  a  common  sailor  in  jersey 
and  trousers  and  knitted  woollen  cap,  rose  up  from  the  deck  to 
greet  him  hospitably.    His  whole  appearance  betokened  seriouc 


DOWN  STREAM. 


11 


to  the 
sr  little 
ects  of 
She's 
i-buoy 
s  com- 
you'll 

5  round 

A  tide, 
-that's 
Pool  at 
regular 
ding  to 
i  sister 
bouever 

apsent. 
It'll  be 
iriences. 
nded  to 
Bh.— I'll 
,n  in  my 
be  sure, 
^hile  at 


I  to  the 
f  on  his 
rendered 
oard  the 


business.  It  was  evident  that  Warren  Eelf  did  not  mean  to  play 
at  yachting. 

"  You've  been  making  a  night  of  it,  I'm  afraid,  Massinger,"  ho 
said,  as  their  eyes  met.  "  Bad  preparation,  you  know,  for  a  day 
down  the  river.  We-  shall  have  a  loppy  sea,  if  this  wind  holds, 
when  we  pass  the  Nore.  You  ought  to  have  gone  straight  to 
bed  when  you  left  the  club  with  me  last  evening," 

"I  know  I  ought,"  the  poet  responded  with  affected  cheerful- 
ness. "  The  path  of  duty's  as  plain  as  a  pikestaft".  But  the 
things  I  ought  to  do  I  mostly  leave  undone ;  and  the  things  I 
ought  not  to  do,  I  find,  on  the  contrary,  vastly  attractive.  I 
may  as  well  make  a  clean  breast  of  it.  I  strolled  round  to 
Pallavicini's  after  you  vacated  the  Eow  last  night,  and  found 
them  having  a  turn  or  two  at  lansquenet.  Now,  lansquenet's 
an  amusement  I  never  can  resist.  The  consequence  was,  in 
three  hours  I  was  pretty  well  cleaned  out  of  ready  cash,  and 
shall  have  to  keep  my  nose  to  the  grindstone  accordingly  all 
through  what  onglit  by  rights  to  have  been  my  summer  holiday. 
This  conclusively  shows  the  evils  of  high  play,  and  f'e  moral 
superiority  of  the  wise  man  who  goes  home  to  bed  and  is  sound 
asleep  when  the  clock  strikes  eleven." 

Eelf's  face  fell  several  tones.  "I  wish,  Massinger,"  he  paid 
very  gravely,  "you'd  make  up  your  mind  never  to  touch  those 
hateful  cards  again.  You'll  ruin  your  health,  your  mind,  and 
your  pocket  with  them.  If  you  spent  the  time  you  spend  upon 
play  in  writing  some  really  great  book  now,  you'd  make  in  the 
end  ten  times  as  much  by  it." 

The  poet  smiled  a  calm  smile  of  superior  wisdom.  "  Good 
boy !  "  he  cried,  patting  Eelf  on  the  back  in  mock  approbation 
of  his  moral  advice.  ♦'  You  talk  for  all  the  world  like  a  Sunday- 
school  prize-book.  Honest  industry  has  its  due  reward ;  while 
pitch-and-toss  and  wicked  improper  games  land  one  at  last  in 
prison  or  the  workhouse.  The  industrious  apprentice  rises  in 
time  to  bo  Lord  Mayor  (and  to  appropriate  the  public  funds  ad 
libitum) ;  whereas,  the  idle  apprentice,  degraded  by  the  evil 
influences  of  ha'penny  loo,  ends  his  days  with  a  collar  of  hemp 
round  his  naughty  neck  in  an  equally  exalted  but  perhaps  less 
dignified  position  in  life— on  a  platform  at  Newgate.  My  dear 
Eelf,  how  on  earth  can  you,  who  are  a  sensible  man,  believe  all 
that  antiquated  nursery  rubbish  ?  Cast  your  eyes  lor  a  moment 
on  the  world  around  you,  here  in  'the  central  hub  of  London, 
within  sight  of  all  the  wealth  and  squalor  of  England,  and  ask 
yourself  candidly  whether  what  you  see  in  it  at  all  corresponds 
with  the  idyllic  picture  of  the  litt'e-Jack-Horner  school  of 
moralists.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  is  it  always  the  good  boys  who 
pull  the  plums  with  Felf-approciative  smile  out  of  the  world's 
pudding  ?    Far  from  it:  quite  the  other  way.    I  have  teen  the 


IT 


i^i..i»p^"  <jmi,     (11  iwwi 


12 


THIS  MORTAL   COIL. 


!'l 


IP. 

\ 

ii 


wicked  flourishing  in  my  time  like  a  green  bay -free.  Honest 
industry  breaks  stones  on  the  road,  while  successful  robbery  or 
successful  gambling  rolls  by  at  its  ease,  cigar  in  mouth,  lolling 
on  the  cushions  of  its  luxurious  carriage.  If  you  stick  to  honest 
industry  all  your  life  long,  you  may  go  on  breaking  stones  con- 
tentedly for  the  whole  term  of  your  natural  existence.  But  if 
you  speculate  boldly  with  your  week's  earnings  and  land  a  haul, 
you  may  set  another  fellow  to  break  stones  for  you  in  time,  and 
then  you  become  at  once  a  respectable  man,  a  capitalist,  and  a 
baronet.  All  the  great  fortunes  we  see  in  the  world  have  been 
piled  up  in  the  last  resort,  if  you'll  oul'*  believe  it,  by  successful 
gambling." 

"Everyman  has  a  right  to  his  own  Oj>inion,"  Warren  Eelf 
answered  with  a  more  serious  air,  as  he  turned  aside  to  look 
after  the  rigging.  "  I  admit  there's  a  great  deal  of  gambling  in 
business;  but  anyhow,  honest  industry's  a  simple  necessary  on 
board  the  Mud- Turtle,— CovnQ  aft,  here,  will  you,  from  your 
topsy-turvy  moral  pliilosophy,  and  help  me  out  with  this  sheet 
and  the  mainsail.  Before  wo  reach  the  German  Ocean,  you'll 
have  the  whole  art  of  navigation  at  your  lingers'  ends— for  I 
mea.^  to  sketch  while  you  manage  the  ship — and  be  in  a  posi- 
tion to  write  an  o'le  in  a  Catalonian  metre  on  the  Pleasures  of 
Luffing,  and  the  True  Delight  of  the  Thames  Waterway.'* 

Massinger  turned  to  do  as  he  was  directed,  and  to  inspect  the 
temporary  floating  hotel  in  which  he  was  to  make  his  way  con- 
tentedly down  to  the  coast  of  Suffolk.  The  Mud-Turtle  was 
indeed  as  odd-looking  and  original  a  little  craft  as  her  owner 
and  skipper  had  proclaimed  her  to  be.  A  centre-board  yawl,  of 
seventeen  tons  registered  burden,  she  ranked  as  a  yacht  only  by 
courtesy,  on  the  general  principle  of  what  the  logicians  call  ex- 
cluded middle.  If  she  wasn't  that,  why,  then,  pray  what  in  the 
world  was  she?  The  Mud-Turtle  measured  almost  as  broad 
across  the  beam  as  she  reckoned  feet  in  length  from  stem  to 
stern ;  and  her  skipper  maintained  with  profound  pride  that  she 
couldn't  capsize  in  the  wor;  storm  tliat  ever  blew  out  of  an 
English  sky,  even  if  she  tried  to.  She  drew  no  more  than  three 
feet  of  water  at  a  pinch ;  and  though  it  was  scarcely  true,  as 
Eelf  had  averred,  that  a  heavy  dew  was  sufficient  tc  float  her, 
she  could  at  least  go  anywhere  that  a  man  could  wade  up  to  his 
knees  without  fear  of  wetting  his  tucked-up  breeches.  This 
made  her  a  capital  boat  for  a  marine  artist  to  go  about  sketching 
in ;  for  Relf  could  lay  her  alongside  a  wreck  on  shallow  sands, 
or  run  her  up  a  narrow  creek  after  picturesque  waterfowl,  or 
approach  the  riskiest  shore  to  the  very  edge  of  the  cliffs,  without 
any  reference  to  the  state  of  the  tide,  or  the  probable  depth  of 
the  surrounding  channel. 

*'  If  she  grounds/'  the  artist  said  enthusiastically,  expatiating 


i 


I  i*«i  I  ■  fc  in^  1 1  ^i<ipi»  -it  M 


DOWN  STREAM. 


13 


rco.  Honest 
il  robbery  or 
louth,  lolling 
ick  to  honest 
;  stones  con- 
snce.  But  if 
laud  a  haul, 
in  time,  and 
italist,  and  a 
d  have  been 
by  successful 

Warren  Eclf 
iside  to  look 
gambling  in 
necessary  on 
I,  from  your 
th  tills  sheet 
Ocean,  you'll 
'  ends— for  I 
be  in  a  posi- 
Pleasures  of 
rway.'* 

;o  inspect  the 
his  way  con- 
id- Turtle  was 
13  her  owner 
aard  yawl,  of 
acht  only  by 
cians  call  ex- 
f  what  in  the 
ast  as  broad 
rom  stem  to 
ride  that  she 
w  out  of  an 
L-e  than  three 
:coly  true,  as 
tc  float  her, 
ide  up  to  his 
eches.  This 
>ut  sketching 
lallow  sands, 
vaterfowl,  or 
liflfs,  without 
)le  depth  of 

expatiating 


on  her  merits  to  his  new^  passenger,  "  you  see  it  doesn't  really 
matter  twopence ;  for  the  next  high  tide'll  pet  her  afloat  again 
within  six  hours.  She's  a  great  opportunist :  she  knows  well 
that  all  things  come  in  time  to  him  who  can  wait.  The  Mud- 
Turtle  positively  revels  in  mud ;  she  lies  flat  on  it  as  on  her 
native  heath,  and  stays  patiently  without  one  word  of  reproach 
for  the  moon's  attraction  to  come  in  its  round  to  her  ultimate 

rescue." 

The  yawl's  accommoflation  was  opportunist  too  :  though 
excellent  in  kind,  it  was  limited  in  quantity,  and  by  no  means 
unduly  luxurious  in  quality.  She  was  a  working-man's  yacht, 
and  she  meant  business.  Her  deck  was  calculated  on  the  most 
utilitarian  principles — jnst  big  enough  for  two  pcuvous  to  sketch 
abreast ;  her  cabin  contained  three  wooden  bunks,  with  their 
appropriate  complement  of  rugs  and  blankets;  and  a  smo'l  and 
primitive  open  stove  devoted  to  the  service  of  the  ship's  cookery, 
took  up  almost  all  the  vacant  space  in  the  centre  of  the  well, 
leaving  hardly  room  for  the  self-sacrificing  volunteer  who  under- 
took the  functions  of  purveyor  and  bottle-washer  to  turn  about 
in.  But  the  lockers  were  amply  stored  with  fresh  bread,  tinned 
meats,  and  other  simple  necessaries  for  a  week's  cruise ;  while 
food  for  the  mind  existed  on  a  small  shelf  at  the  stern  in  the 
crude  shape  of  the  "  Coaster's  Companion,"  the  Sailing  Direc- 
tions issued  by  Authority  of  the  Honourable  Brethren  of  the 
Trinity  House,  and  the  charts  of  the  Thames,  constructed  from 
the  latest  official  surveys  of  her  Majesty's  Board  of  Admiralty. 
Thus  equipped  and  accoutred  Warien  Rcilf  was  accustomed  to 
live  an  outiloor  life  for  weeks  togelher  with  his  one  like-minded 
chum  and  companion;  and  if  the  spray  was  sometimes  rather 
moist,  and  the  yellow  fog  rather  thick  and  slabby,  and  the  early 
mornings  rather  chill  and  raw,  and  the  German  Ocean  rather 
loppy  and  aggressive  on  the  digestive  faculties,  yet  the  good 
[dose  of  fresh  air,  the  delicious  salty  feeling  of  the  free  breeze, 
and  the  perpetual  sense  of  ease  and  lightness  that  comes  with 
1  yachting,  were  more  than  enough  fully  to  atone  to  an  enthusi- 
I  astic  marine  artist  for  all  these  petty  passing  inconveniences. 

As  for  Hugh  Massinger,  9  confirmed  landsman,  the  first  few 

[hours'  sail  down  the  cro'-,  aed  Thames  appeared  to  him  at  the 

outset  a  perfect  plu  otasmagoria  of   evtr- varying  perils  and 

assorted  terrors.    Ho  <.  imposed  his  soul  to  instant  death  from 

the  very  beginning.    Kot,  indeed,  that  he  minded  one  bit  for 

that :  the  poet  dearly  loved  danger,  as  he  loved  all  other  forms 

of  sensation  and  excitement :  they  were  food  for  the  Muse ;  and 

(the  Muse,  liko  Blanche  Amory,  is  apt  to  exclaim,  "  II  me  faut 

Ides  emotions! "    But  the  manifold  novel  forms  of  enterprise  as 

[the  lumbering  little  yawl  made  her  way  clumsily  among  the 

[great  East-Indiameu  and  big  ocean-going  steamers, 


2 


darting 


\h 


1! 


I 


■;l  ; 


14 


THIS  MORTAL   COIL, 


boldly  noW  athwart  the  very  bows  of  a  hnj^o  Monarch-liner, 
insinuating  herself  now  with  delicate  precissioa  between  the 
broadsides  of  two  heavy  Rochester  barges,  and  just  escaping 
coUision  now  with  some  laden  collier  from  Cardiff  or  Newcastle, 
■were  too  complicated  and  too  ever-pressing  at  the  first  blush  for 
Massinger  fully  to  take  in  their  meaning  at  a  single  glance. 

The  tidal  Thames  is  the  Cheapside  of  the  ocean,  a  mart  of 
many  nations,  resorting  to  it  by  sea  and  by  land.  It's  all  very  well 
going  down  the  river  on  the  Antwerp  packet  or  the  outward- 
bound  New-Zealander ;  you  steam  then  at  your  ease  along  the 
broad  unencumbered  central  channel,  with  serene  confidence 
that  a  duly  qualified  pilot  stands  at  your  helm,  and  that  every- 
body else  will  gladly  give  way  to  you,  for  the  sake  of  saving 
their  own  bacon.  But  it's  quite  another  matter  to  thread  your 
way  tortuously  through  that  thronged  and  bustling  highway  of 
the  shipping  interest  in  a  ctutre-board  yawl  of  seventeen  tons 
registered  burden,  manned  by  a  single  marine  artist  and  an 
amateur  passenger  of  uncertain  seamanship.  Hugh  Massinger 
was  at  once  amused  and  bewildered  by  the  careless  confidence 
with  which  his  seafaring  friend  dashed  boldly  in  and  out  among 
brigs  and  schooners,  smacks  and  steamships,  on  port  or  star- 
board tack,  in  endless  confusion,  backing  the  little  Mud-Turtle 
to  hold  her  own  in  the  unequal  contest  against  the  biggest  and 
swiftest  craft  that  sailed  the  river.  His  opinion  of  Itelf  rose 
rapidly  mauy  degrees  in  mental  register  as  he  watched  him 
tacking  and  luffing  and  scudding  and  dar.ing  with  cool  un- 
concern in  his  toy  tub  among  so  many  huge  and  swiftly  moving 
monsters. 

"Port  your  helm!"Eelf  cried  to  him  hastily  once,  as  they 
crossed  the  channel  just  abreast  of  Greenwich  Hospital.  "  Here's 
another  sudden  death  down  upon  us  round  the  Reach  yonder ! " 
And  even  as  he  spoke,  a  big  coal-steamer,  with  a  black  diamond 
painted  allusively  on  her  bulky  funnel,  turning  the  low  point 
of  land  that  closed  their  view,  bore  hastily  down  upon  them 
from  the  opposite  direction  with  menacing  swiftness.  Mas- 
singer, doing  his  best  to  obey  orders,  grew  bewildered  after  a 
lime  by  the  glib  rapidity  of  his  friend's  commands.  He  was 
perfectly  ready  to  act  as  he  was  bid  when  once  he  understood 
his  instructions ;  but  the  seafaring  mind  seems  unable  to  com- 
prehend that  landsmen  do  not  possess  an  intuitive  knowledge  of 
the  strange  names  bestowed  by  technical  souls  upon  ropes, 
booms,  gaffs,  and  mizzen-masts ;  so  that  Massinger's  attempts 
to  carry  out  his  orders  in  a  prodigious  hurry  proved  productive 
for  the  most  part  rather  of  blank  confusion  than  of  the  effect 
intended  by  the  master  skipjDer.  After  passing  Greenhithe, 
howevev,  they  began  to  find  tlie  channel  somewhat  clearer,  and 
Relf  ceased  for  a  while  to  skip  about  the  deck  like  the  little 


& 


£l 


DOWN  STREAM. 


Id 


irch-liner, 
tween  the 
b  escaping 
Newcastle, 
b  blush  for 
[lance. 
a  mart  of 
II  very  well 
3  outward- 
3  along  the 
confidence 
that  every- 
)  of  saving 
hrcad  your 
highway  of 
mteen  tons 
;ist  and  an 
L  Massinger 
1  confidence 
[  out  among 
art  or  star- 
Mud- Turtle 
higgcst  and 
3f  Keif  rose 
atched  him 
th  cool  un- 
iftly  moving 

[ice,  as  they 
al.  "Hero's 
eh  yonder ! " 
ick  diamond 
le  low  point 

upon  them 

ness.  Mas- 
lered  after  a 
ds.    He  was 

understood 
able  to  corn- 
knowledge  of 

upon  ropes, 
jr's  attempts 
•d  productive 

of  the  effect 

Grcenhithe, 

t  clearer,  and 

ike  the  little 


hills  of  the  Psalmist,  while  Massinger  felt  his  life  comparatively 
safe  at  times  lor  three  minutes  together,  without  a  single  danger 
menacing  him  ahead  in  the  immediate  future  from  port  or  star- 
board, from  bow  or  stern,  from  brig  or  steamer,  from  grounding 
or  collision. 

About  two  o'clock,  after  a  hot  run,  they  cast  anchor  awhile 
[out  of  the  main  channel,  where  traders  ply  their  flow  of  inter- 
[  course,  and  stood  by  to  eat  their  lunch  in  peace  and  quietness 
\  under  the  lee  of  a  projecting  point  near  Gravesend. 

♦'If  wind  and  tide  serve  like  tliis,"  Eelf  observed  philo- 
[sophically,  as  he  poured  out  a  glassful  of  beer  into  a  tin  mug — 
the  Mud'Turtle*s  appointments  were  all  of  the  homeliest — "we 
fought  to  get  down  tc  vVhitestrand  before  an  easy  breeze  with 
;  two  days'  sail,  sleeping  the  nights  in  the  quiet  creeks  ut  Leigh 
\  and  Orfordness." 

;^;     "That  would  exactly  suit  me,"  Massinger  answered,  drain- 

Uing  off  the  mugful  at  a  gulp  after  his  unusual  exertion.    "I 

/^:  wrote  a  hasty  line  to  my  cousin  in  Suffolk  this  morning  telling 

'|her  I  should  probably  reach  Whitestrand  the  day  after  to- 

imorrow,  wind  and  weather  permitting.—  I  approve  of  your  ship, 

fEelf,  and  of  your  tinned  lobster  too.    It's  fun  coming  down  to 

ithe  great  deep  in  this  unconventional  way.     The  regulation 

|racht,  with  sailors  and  a  cook  and  a  floating  drawing-room,  my 

|oul  wouldn't  care  for.    You  can  get  drawing-rooms  galore  any 

pay  in  Belgravia;   but  picnicking  like  this,  with  a  spice  of 

idventuro  in  it,  falls  in  precisely  with  my  own  view  of  the  ends 

of  existence." 

^  "  It's  a  cousin  you're  going  down  to  Suffolk  to  see,  then  ?  " 

"  Well,  yes ;  a  cousin — a  sort  of  a  cousin ;  a  Girton  girl ;  the 
jicwest  thing  out  in  women.  I  call  her  a  cousin  for  convenience' 
|Bake.  Not  too  nearly  related,  if  it  comes  to  that ;  a  surfeit  of 
family's  a  thing  to  be  avoided.  But  we're  a  decadent  tribe,  the 
|ribe  of  Massinger ;  hardly  any  others  of  us  loft  alive ;  when  I 
)ut  on  my  hat,  I  cover  all  that  remains  of  us;  and  cousin- 
lood's  a  capital  thing  in  its  way  to  keep  up  under  certain 
)nditions.  It  enables  a  man  to  pay  a  pretty  girl  a  great  deal 
|»f  respectful  attention,  without  necessarily  binding  himself  down 
the  end  to  anything  definite  in  the  matrimonial  direction." 
•*  That's  rather  a  cruel  way  of  regarding  it,  isn't  it  V  " 

Well,  my  dear  boy,  what's  a  man  to  do  in  those  jammed 
id  crushed  and  overcrowded  days  of  ours  ?  Nature  demands 
le  safety-valve  of  a  harmless  flirtation.  If  one  can't  afford  to 
larry,  the  natural  affections  will  find  an  outlet,  on  a  cousin  or 
)mebody.  But  it's  quite  impossible,  as  things  go  nowadays, 
)r  a  penniless  man  to  dream  of  taking  to  wife  a  penniless 
^oman  and  living  on  the  sum  of  their  joint  properties.  Accord- 
Hg  to  Cocker,  nought  and  nought  make  nothing.    So  one  must. 


H 


16 


THIS  MORTAL  COIL, 


jnst  xvait  till  one's  clianco  in  lifo  turns  up,  ono  way  or  tlio  other. 
If  you  mako  a  fluke  some  day,  and  i)aint  a  successful  picture, 
or  write  a  succeesful  book,  or  got  ofT  a  hopeless  murderer  at  the 
Old  Bailey,  or  invent  a  now  nervous  disease  for  women,  or 
otherwise  rise  to  sudden  fortune  by  any  ono  of  the  usual  absurd 
roads,  then  you  can  marry  your  pretty  cousin  or  other  little  girl 
in  a  lordly  v.'ay  out  of  your  own  resources.  If  not,  you  must 
just  put  up  with  the  plain  daughter  of  an  eminent  alderman  in 
the  wine  and  spirit  business,  or  connected  with  tallow,  or  doing 
a  good  thing  in  hides,  and  let  her  hard  cash  atone  vicariously 
for  your  own  want  of  tender  affection.  "When  a  man  has  no 
jwtrimony,  he  niust  obviously  make  it  up  in  matrimony.  Only, 
the  great  point  to  avoid  is  letting  the  penniless  girl  meanwhile 
get  too  deep  a  liold  upon  your  personal  feelings.  The  wisest 
men — like  me,  for  example— are  downright  fools  when  it  comes 
to  high  play  on  the  domestic  instincts.  Even  Achilles  had  a 
vulnerable  point,  you  know.  So  has  every  wise  man.  With 
Achillos,  it  was  tlie  heel;  with  us,  it's  the  heart.  The  heart  will 
wreck  the  profonndest  and  most  delilxirato  philosopher  living. 
I  acknowledge  it  myself.  I  ought  to  wait,  of  course,  till  I  catch 
the  eminent  alderman's  richly  endowed  daughter.  Instead  of 
that,  I  shall  doubtless  fling  myself  away  like  a  born  fool  upon 
the  pretty  cousin  or  some  other  equally  unprofitable  invest- 
ment." 

"Well,  I  hope  you  will,"  Eolf  answered,  cutting  himself  a 
huge  chunk  of  bread  with  his  pocket  clasp-knife.  "  I  am  awfully 
glad  to  hear  you  say  so.  For  your  own  sake,  I  hope  you'll  keep 
your  woid.  I  \\o\)e  you  won't  stiflo  everything  you've  got  that's 
best  within  you  for  the  sake  of  money  and  position  and  success. 
— Have  a  bit  of  this  corned  Ixief,  will  youV — A  woman  who  sells 
hers<!lf  for  money  is  bad  enough,  though  it's  woman's  way — 
they've  all  Ixjen  trained  to  it  for  generations.  But  a  man  who 
sells  himself  fcr  money — who  takes  himself  to  market  for  the 
highest  bidder — who  makes  capital  out  of  his  face  and  Iuk 
manners  and  his  conversation — is  absolutely  contemptible,  and 
nothiifr  sliort  of  it. — I  could  never  go  on  knowing  you,  if  I 
thought  you  capable  of  it.  But  I  don't  think  you  so.  I'm  sure 
you  do  yourself  a  gross  injustice.  You're  a  great  dofd  better 
than  you  pretend  yourself.  If  the  occasion  ever  actually  arose, 
you'd  follow  your  better  and  not  your  worse  nature. — I'll  trouble 
you  for  the  mustard." 

Massinger  passed  it,  and  pretended  to  feel  awfully  borctl. 
''I'm  sure  I  don't  know,"  he  answered;  "I  shall  wait  and  see. 
I  don't  undertake  either  to  read  or  to  guide  my  own  character. 
According  to  the  fashionable  modern  doctrine,  it  was  all  settled 
for  me  irrevocably  beforehand  by  my  parents  and  grandparents 
in  past  generations.     I  merely  stind  by  and  watch  where  it 


ARCADIA. 


17 


•r  tho  other, 
fvil  picture, 
(Icror  at  the 

women,  or 
sual  absnrtl 
or  little  girl 
t,  you  must 
alderman  in 
jw,  or  doing 
3  vicariously 
man  has  no 
lony.  Only, 
I  meanwhile 

The  wisest 
hen  it  comes 
ihilles  had  a 
man.  With 
he  heart  will 
[)phcr  living, 
e,  till  I  catch 
.  Instead  of 
rn  fool  upon 
itable  invest- 

ng  himself  a 
I  am  awfully 
10  you'll  keop 
I've  got  that's 
1  and  success, 
man  who  sells 
)man'8  way— 
Lit  a  man  who 
arket  for  the 
face  and  his 
eniptible,  and 
ving  you,  if  1 
so.    I'm  Buio 
at  deal  bettei- 
actually  arose, 
-I'll  trouble 

iwfiiUy  borctl. 
I  wait  and  see. 
own  character, 
was  all  settled 
I  grandparents 
atch  where  it 


leads  mo,  with  passive  resignation  and  silent  curiosity.  Tho 
attitude's  not  entirely  devoid  of  plot-interest.  It's  amusiDg  to 
sit,  like  the  gods  of  Epicurus,  enthroned  on  high,  and  look  down 
from  without  with  critical  eyes  upon  tho  gradual  development 
on  tho  stage  of  life  of  ono's  own  liiatOry  and  one's     .vn  idiosyn- 


crasy. 


CHAPTER  111. 


ARCADIA. 


I  The  village  of  Whilostrand,  on  the  Suffolk  coa-^t—an  oasis  in  a 
t  stretch  of  treeless  desort — was,  and  is,  ono  of  the  remotest  and 
fmost  primitive  spots  to  be  found  anywhere  on  tho  shores  of 
f  England.    Tho  railways,  running  inland  away  to  tho  west,  have 
tlelt  it  for  ages  far  in  the  lurch ;  and  even  the  two  or  three  belated 
[roads  that  converge  upcm  it  from  surrounding  villaj-es  lead  no- 
Jwhere.    It  is,  so  to  speak,  an  absolute  terminus.    Tho  World's 
lEnd  is  the  whimsical  Lille  of  the  last  house  at  V/hitestrand. 
fThe  little  river  Char  that  debouches  into  the  sea  just  below  tho 
ichurch,  with  its  scattered  group  of  thatched  cottages,  cuts  off  tho 
Ibamlet  eflfectually  with  its  broad  estuary  from  the  low  stretch 
if  reclaimed  and  sluico-drained  pasturo-land  of  wiry  grass  that 
lolls  away  to  southward.    On  tho  north,  a  rank  salt  nu.rsh  hems 
lb  in  with  broad  flats  of  sedge  and  thrift  and  wan  sea-lavender; 
And  eastward,  the  low  line  of  tho  German  Ocean  spreads  dimly 
|n  front  its  shallow  horizon  on  the  very  level  of  the  beach  and 
the  village.    Only  to  the  west  is  there  any  dry  land,  a  sandy 
|ieath  across  whose  barren  surface  the  three  roads  from  the 
lieighbouring  hamlets  meander  meaninglessly  by  tortuous  curves 
towards  the  steeple  of  Whitestrand.    All  around,  tho  country 
lies  flat,  stale,  and  singularly  unprofitable.    The  village,  in  fact, 
'  jcnpies  a  tiny  triangular  peninsula  of  level  ground,  who  ,e 
itlnuus  is  formed  by  the  narrow  belt  of  heath-clad  waste  which 
fclone  connects  it  with  tho  outer  universe. 
The  very  name  Whitestrand,  as  old  as  the  days  of  the  Danish 
ivasion  of  the  East  Anglian  plain,  at  once  describes  tho  ono 
triking  and  noteworthy  feature  of  tho  entire  district.    It  has 
Ibsolutely  no  salient  point  of  its  own  of  any  sort,  except  tlie 
yard  and  firm  floor  of  pure  white  sand  that  extends  for  niili  s 
nd  miles  on  either  side  of  the  village.    The  sands  begin  Tit  the 
iked  land  south  of  the  river — rescued  from  the  tide  by  Oliver's 
hitch  engineers — and  narrowing  gradually  as  they  pass  north- 
ward, disappear  altogether  into  low  muddy  cliff  some  four  or 
|ve  miles  beyond  the  church  of  WhitestraDcl.    No  strip  of  coast 
lywhere  in  England  can  boast  such  a  splendid  b.auh  of  uni- 


18 


Tills  MOUTAl  COIL. 


1 


I 


^li 


f 


III 


form  w1utono88,  firmncRs,  and  Rolidity.  At  WliifestrnTid  it«elf, 
the  fiundn  extend  for  three-qimrtors  of  a  milo  Boaward  at  Iomt 
tide,  and  are  no  Bmooih  and  compact  in  their  conniHtent  lovul, 
that  a  horso  can  gallop  over  thorn  at  full  speed  without  leaving 
80  much  as  the  mark  of  a  hoof  upon  tlio  oven  surface  of  that 
natural  arena.  Whitest randcra  are  enormously  proud  of  their 
beach ;  the  people  of  Walherswick,  a  rival  village  Home  miles  off, 
with  a  local  reputation  for  what  passes  in  Suffolk  as  rural 
picturcsqueness,  mnlicionsly  declare  this  is  because  the  poor 
Whitcstranders— heaven  help  them  I — have  nothing  else  on  earth 
to  be  proud  of.  Such  remarks,  however,  savotr  no  doubt  of 
mere  neighbourly  jealousy;  tho  Walherswick  folk,  having  no 
beach  at  all  of  their  own  to  brag  about,  are  therel'oro  naturally 
intolerant  of  heacher.  in  other  places. 

All  Whitestrand— what  there  was  left  of  it— belonged  to 
Mr.  Wyvilie  Meysey.  His  family  had  boupht  the  manor  and 
estate  a  hundred  years  before,  from  their  elder  representatives, 
when  the  banking  firm  of  Meyscy's  in  the  Strand  was  in  tho 
first  heydey  of  its  financial  glory.  Unhappily  for  him,  his 
particular  ancestor,  a  collateral  member  of  the  great  house,  had 
preferred  the  respectable  position  of  a  country  gentleman  to  an 
active  share  in  tho  big  concern  in  London.  From  that  day 
forth  the  sea  had  been  steadily  eating  away  the  Meysey  estate, 
till  very  little  was  left  of  it  now  but  salt  marsh  and  sandhills 
and  swampy  pasture-lands. 

It  was  Tuesday  when  Hugh  Massinger  and  Warren  Eelf  set 
sail  from  the  Tower  on  their  voyage  in  the  Mud- Turtle  down 
the  crowded  tidal  Thames ;  on  Thursday  morning,  two  pretty 
girls  sat  together  on  the  roots  of  an  old  gnarled  poplar  that 
overhung  the  exact  point  where  the  Char  empties  itself  into  the 
German  Ocean.  The  Whitestrand  poplar,  indeed,  had  formed 
for  three  centuries  a  famous  landmark  to  seafaring  men  who 
coast  round  the  inlets  of  the  Eastern  Coimties.  In  the  quaint 
words  of  the  old  county  historian,  it  rose  "  from  the  manor  of 
Whitestrand  straight  up  towards  the  kingdom  of  heaven ; "  and 
round  its  knotted  roots  and  hollow  trunk  the  current  ran  fierce 
at  the  turn  of  the  tides,  for  it  formed  the  one  frail  barrier  to  the 
encroachment  of  the  sea  on  that  portion  of  the  low  and  decaying 
Suffolk  coast-lino.  Everybody  had  known  tho  Whitestrand 
poplar  as  a  point  to  sail  by  ever  since  the  spacious  days  of 
groat  Elizabeth.  When  you  get  in  a  line  with  the  steeple  of 
Walberswick,  with  the  windmill  on  Snade  Hill  opening  to  the 
right,  you  can  run  straight  up  the  mouth  of  Char  towards  the 
tiny  inland  port  of  Woodford.  Vessels  of  small  burden  in 
distress  off  the  coast  in  easterly  gales  often  take  shelter  in  this 
little  creek  as  a  harbour  of  refuge  fiom  heavy  weather  on  the 
German  Ocean. 


ARCADIA, 


10 


The  elder  of  llic  two  girls  who  sat  to;?fttlicr  picturesquely  on 
this  natural  niBtio  scat  was  dark  and  )iaiid><()inu,  and  ho  dike 
llugh  Massinger  himself  in  face  and  feature,  that  no  one  wcuuld 
liave  had  much  difficulty  in  recognizing  her  for  the  socond 
cousin  of  whom  he  had  spoken,  Elsie  Challoncr.  Her  expres- 
Bion  was  more  earnest  and  serious,  to  ,bo  Bure,  than  tiio  London 
|)oet's;  her  tyix)  of  beauty  was  more  tender  and  true;  but  sho 
had  the  same  large  melting  pathetic  eyes,  the  same  melancholy 
and  ciiisolled  mouth,  the  same  long  black  wiry  htur,  and  the 
same  innate  grace  of  bearing  and  manner  in  every  movement  as 
lier  Byronic  relative.  The  younger  girl,  her  pupil,  was  fairer 
and  shorter,  a  pretty  and  delicate  blonde  of  eighteen,  with  clear 
blue  eyes  and  wistful  mouth,  and  a  slender  but  dainty  girlish 
figure.  "They  Fat  hand  in  hand  on  the  roots  of  the  tree,  half 
overarched  by  its  hollow  funnel,  looking  out  together  over  the 
low  Ihit  sea,  whose  fresh  breeze  blew  hard  in  tlieir  faces,  ;vith 
the  delicious  bracing  coolness  and  airiness  peculiar  to  the  shore 
of  the  German  Ocean.  There  is  no  other  air  iu  all  England  to 
equal  that  strong  air  of  Suffolk;  it  seems  to  blow  right  through 
and  thrcmgh  one,  and  to  brush  away  the  dust  and  smoke  of  to.vn 
from  all  one's  pores  with  a  single  whiff  of  its  clear  bright  purity. 

"How  do  you  tliink  your  cousin'll  come, Elsie?"  the  younger 
girl  asked,  twisting  her  big  straw  hat  by  its  strings  carelessly 
]n  her  hands.  "I  expect  he'll  drive  over  iu  a  carriage  from 
Daw's  from  the  Ahnundham  Station." 

*'  I'm  sure  I  dcm't  know,  dear,"  the  elder  and  darker  answered 
with  a  smile. — "But  how  a\v fully  interested  you  seem  to  be, 
Winifred,  iu  this  celebrated  cousin  of  mine!  What  a  thing  it 
is  for  a  man  to  be  a  poetl  You've  talked  of  uotliing  else  the 
whole  nu)rning." 

Winifred  laughed.  **  Cousins  are  so  very  rare  in  this  part  of 
the  country,  you  see,"  she  said  apologetically.  "  We  don't  get 
sight  of  a  cousin,  you  know — or,  for  tlie  matter  of  that,  of  any 
other  male  human  being,  erect  upon  two  legs,  and  with  a  beard 
on  his  face — twice  in  a  twelvemonth.  The  live  young  man  is 
rapidly  becoming  an  extinct  animal  in  these  parts,  I  believe. 
He  exists  only  in  tlie  form  of  a  photograph.  "We. shall  soon 
have  him  stutFed,  whenever  we  catch  him,  or  exhibit  a  pair  of 
his  boots,  with  a  label  attached,  in  a  glass  case  at  all  the 
museums,  side  by  side  with  the  dodo,  and  the  something-or- 
other-osaurian.  A  live  young  man  in  a  tourist  suit  is  quite  a 
rarity,  I  declare,  nowadays. — And  then  a  poet  too  1  I  never  in 
my  life  set  eyes  yet  upon  a  genuine  all-wool  unadulterated  poet. 
—And  you  say  he's  handsome,  extremely  handsome !  Hand- 
some, and  a  poet,  and  a  live  young  man,  all  at  once,  like  three 
gentlemen  rolled  into  one,  as  Mrs.  Malaprop  says ;  that's  really 
Komething  to  make  one's  self  excited  about." 


20 


TUIS  MORTAL  COIL. 


if 


111 


Winifred  I  Winifred  1  you  naughty  bad  girl!"  Elsie  langTied 
out,  half  in  jest  and  lialt'  in  earnest,  '*  moderate  your  traus- 

;)orts.  You've  got  no  sense  of  propriety  in  you,  I  do  be- 
ieve — and  no  respect  for  your  instructress's  dignity  either. 
I  oughtn't  to  let  you  talk  on  like  that.  It  isn't  becoming  in  the 
guardian  of  youth.  The  guardian  of  youth  ought  sternly  to 
insist  on  due  reticence  in  speaking  of  strangers,  especially  when 
they  belong  to  the  male  persuasion. — But  as  it's  only  Hugh, 
after  all,  I  suppose  it  really  doesn't  matter.  I  look  upon  Hugh, 
Winnie,  like  my  own  brother." 

"What  a  jolly  name,  Hugh!"  Winifred  cried,  enthusiastically. 
"  It  goes  so  awfully  well  together,  too,  Hugh  Massinger.    There's 
a  great  deal  in  names  going  well  together.    I  wouldn't  marry  a 
man  called  Adair,  now,  Elsie,  or-O'Dowd,  either,  not  if  ypu  were 
to  pay  me  for  it  (t'.iough  why  you  should  pay  me,  I'm  sure  I 
don't  know),  for  Winifred  Adair  doesn't  sound  a  bit  nice ;  and 
yet  Elsie  Adair  goes  just  beautifully. — Winifred  Challoner — 
that's  not  bad,  either.    Three  syllable^!,  with  the  accent  on  the 
first.     Winifred  Massinger — 'that  sounds  very  well  too;  best 
of  all,  perhaps.    I  shouldn't  mind  marrying  a  man  named 
Massinger." 
"  Other  things  equal,"  Elsie  put  in,  laughing. 
"  Oh,  of  course  he  must  have  a  moustache,"  Winificcl  went  on 
in  quite  a  serious  voice.    "  Even  if  a  man  was  a  poet,  and  was 
called  Massinger,  and  had  lovely  eyes,  and  could  sing  like  a 
nightingale,  but  hadn't  a  moustache— a  beautiful,  long,  wiry, 
black  moustache,  like  the  curate's  at  Snade— I  wouldn't  for  the 
world  so  much  as  look  at  him.    Mo  close-shaven  young  man 
need  apply,    I  insist  upon  a  moustache  as  absolutely  indispen- 
sable.   Kot  red  :  red  is  quite  inadmissible.    If  ever  I  marry — 
and  I  suppose  1  shall  have  to,  Lime  day,  to  please  papa — I  shall 
lay  it  down  as  a  fixed  point  in  the  settlements,  or  whatever  yur 
call  them,  that  my  husband  must  have  a  black  moustache,  and 
must  bind  himself  down  by  contract  beforehand  as  long  as  1 
live  never  to  shave  it." 

Elsie  shaded  her  eyes  with  her  hand  and  looked  out  seaward. 
"I  shan't  let  you  talk  so  any  more,  Winnie,"  she  said,  with  a 
Tigorous  effort  to  be  sternly  authoritative.  "  It  isn't  right;  and 
you  know  it  isn't.  The  instructress  of  youth  must  exert  her 
authority.  We  ought  to  be  as  grave  as  a  couple  of  church 
owls. — What  a  funny  small  sailing-boat  that  is  on  the  sea  out 
yonder  1  A  regular  little  tub  I  So  flat  and  broad  1  She's  the 
roundest  boat  I  ever  saw  in  my  life.  How  she  uanees  about 
like  a  walnut-shell  on  the  top  ot  the  water  1 " 

"Oh,  that's  the  Mud-Turtle  I'*  Winifred  cried  ^agcrly, 
anxious  to  display  her  nautical  knowledge  to  the  full  extent 
before  Elsie,  the  town-bred  governess,    **  She's  a  painter's  yawlj 


^1 , 


ABOADIA. 


21 


Hugh, 


yon  know.  I've  seen  her  often,  "^he  belongs  to  an  artist,  a 
marine  artist,  who  comes  this  way  every  summer  to  sketch  and 
paint  mud-banks.  He  lies  by  up  here  in  the  shallows  of  the 
creek,  and  does,  oh,  the  funniest  little  pictures  you  ever  saw,  all 
full  of  nothing— just  mud  and  water  and  weeds  and  herons — or 
else  a  great  dull  flat  stretch  of  calm  sea,  with  a  couple  of  gulls 
and  a  buoy  in  the  foreground.  They're  very  clever,  I  suppose, 
for  people  who  understand  those  things ;  but,  like  the  crater  of 
Vesuvius,  there's  nothing  in  ihem.  She  can  go  anywhere, 
though,  even  in  a  ditch — the  Mud- Turtle  can ;  and  she  sails  like 
a  bird,  when  she's  got  all  her  canvas  on.  You  should  just  sea  her 
in  a  good  breeze,  putting  out  to  sea  before  a  fresh  sou'-wester ! " 

"  She's  commg  in  here  now,  I  think,"  Elsie  murmured,  half 
aloud. — "Oh  no,  she's  not;  she's  gone  beyond  it,  towards  the 
point  at  Walberswick." 

"That's  only  to  tiick,"  Winifred  answered,  with  conscious 
pride  in  her  superior  knowledge.  "  She's  got  to  tack  because 
of  the  wind,  you  know.  She'll  come  r.p  the  creek  as  soon  as  she 
catches  the  breeze.  She'll  luflf  goon. — Look  there,  now ;  they're 
luffing  her.  Then  in  a  minute  they'll  put  her  about  a  bit,  and 
tack  again  for  the  creek's  mouth. — There  you  are,  you  see: 
she's  tacking,  as  I  told  you. — That's  the  artist,  the  shorter  man 
in  the  sailor's  jersey.  He  looks  like  a  common  A.B.  when  he's 
got  up  so  in  his  seafaring  clothes;  but  when  you  hear  him 
speak,  you  can  tell  at  once  by  his  voice  he's  really  a  gentleman. 
1  dont  know  who  the  second  man  is,  though,  the  tall  man  in 
the  tweed  suit:  he's  not  the  one  that  generally  comes— that's 
Mr.  Potts.  But,  oh,  isn't  he  handsome !  I  wonder  if  they're 
going  to  sail  close  alongside  ?  I  do  hope  they  are.  The  water's 
awfully  deep  right  in  by  the  poplar  here.  If  they  turn  up  the 
creek,  they'll  run  under  the  roots  just  below  us. — They  seem  to 
be  making  signs  to  us  now. — Why,  Elisie,  the  man  in  the  tweed 
suit's  waving  his  hand  to  you ! " 

Elsie's  face  was  crimson  to  look  upon.  As  the  instructress  of 
youth,  she  felt  herself  distinctly  discomposed.  "  It's  my  cousin," 
sho  cried,  jumping  up  in  a  tremor  of  excitement,  and  waving 
back  to  him  eagerly  with  her  tiny  handkerchief.  "It's  Hugh 
Mas.singer!  How  very  delightful!  Ho  must  have  come  down 
by  sea  with  the  painter." 

"They're  going  to  run  in  just  clnse  by  the  tree,"  Winifred 
exclaimed,  quite  excited  also  at  the  sudden  apparition  of  the 
real  live  poet.  "Oh,  Elsie,  doesn't  he  just  look  poetical!  A 
man  with  a  face  and  eyes  like  that  couldn't  help  writing  poetry, 
even  if  he  didn't  want  to.  He  must  be  a  friend  of  Mr.  Belf's,  I 
suppose.  What  a  lovely,  romantic,  poetical  way  to  come  down 
from  London — tossing  about  at  sea  in  a  glorious  breeze  on  a 
wee  bit  of  a  tub  like  that  funny  little  Mud-Turtkl " 


it 

■  fl 


h 


":^      I 


\T 


\ 


li 


: 


t     :,   i 


'Hi   ■,^; 


22 


ri7/5  MORTAL  COIL. 


By  this  time,  the  yawl,  with  the  breeze  in  her  sails,  had  run 
rapidly  before  the  wind  for  the  mouth  of  the  river,  and  was 
close  upon  them  by  the  roots  of  the  poplar.  As  it  neared  the 
tree,  Hugh  stood  up  on  the  deck,  bronzed  and  ruddy  with  his 
three  days'  yachting,  and  called  out  cheerily  in  a  loud  voice, 
•'  Hullo,  Elsie,  this  is  something  like  a  welcome !  We  arrive  at 
the  port,  after  a  stormy  passage  on  the  high  seas,  and  are  met  at 
its  mouth  by  a  deputation  of  the  leading  inhabitants.  Shall  we 
take  you  on  board  with  your  friend  at  once,  and  carry  you  up 
the  rest  of  the  way  to  Wliitestiand  ?  " 

Elsie's  heart  came  up  into  her  mouth.  She  would  have  given 
the  world  to  be  able  to  cry  out  cordially,  "  Oh,  Hugh,  that'd  be 
just  lovely;"  but  propriety  and  a  sense  of  the  duties  of  her 
position  compelled  her  instead  to  answer  in  a  set  voice,  *'  Well, 
thank  you;  it's  ever  so  kind  of  you,  Hugh;  but  we're  here  in 
our  own  grounds,  you  know,  already. — This  is  Miss  M(ysey, 
Winifred  Meysey :  Winnie,  this  is  my  cousin  Hugh,  dear.  Now 
you  know  one  another. — Hugh,  I'm  so  awfully  glad  to  see  you ! " 

Warren  Eelf  turned  the  laow  toward  the  tree,  and  ran  the 
yawl  close  alongside  till  her  tiny  taflfrail  almost  touched  the 
roots  of  the  big  poplar.  "  That's  better,"  he  said. — "  Now,  Mas- 
singer,  introduce  us.  You  do  it  like  a  Lord  Chamberlain,  I 
know. — You  won't  come  up  with  us,  then,  Miss  Challoner?" 

Elsie  bent  her  head.  "We  mustn't,"  she  said  candidly, 
"  though  I  own  I  should  like  it. — It's  so  very  long  since  I've 
seen  you,  Hugh.  Where  are  you  going  to  slop  at  in  the  village? 
You  must  come  up  this  very  afternoon  to  see  me." 

Hugh  bowed  a  bow  of  profound  acquiescence.  "  If  you  sny 
so,"  he  answered  with  less  languor  than  his  wont,  "your  will  is 
law.  We  shall  certainly  come  up. — I  suppose  I  may  bring  my 
friend  Eelf  with  me— the  owner  and  skipper  of  this  magnificent 
and  luxurious  vessel  ? — We've  had  the  most  delightful  passage 
down,  Elsie.  In  future,  in  fact,  I  mean  to  live  permanently 
upon  a  yawl.  It's  glorious  fun.  You  sail  all  day  before  the 
free,  free  breeze ;  and  you  dodge  the  steamers  that  try  to  run 
you  down;  and  you  put  up  at  night  in  a  convenient  crtek;  and 
you  sleep  like  a  top  on  the  bare  boards ;  and  you  live  upon  sea- 
biscuit  and  bottled  beer  and  the  fresh  sea- air ;  and  you  feel  like 
a  king  or  a  Berserker  or  a  street  arab;  and  you  wonder  why  the 
dickens  you  were  ever  such  a  stupid  fool  before  as  to  wear  black 
clothes,  and  lie  on  a  feather-bed,  and  use  a  knife  and  fork,  and 
eat  olives  and  pate  de  foie  gras,  and  otherwise  give  way  to  the 
ridiculous  foibles  of  an  effete  and  superannuated  western  civili- 
zation. I  never  in  my  life  felt  anything  like  it.  The  blood  of 
the  old  Sea-kings  comes  up  in  my  veins,  and  I've  been  rhym- 
ing 'viking'  and  Miking,'  and  ♦  striking*  and  'diking,'  ever 
since  we  got  well  clear  of  London  Bridge,  till  this  present 


iilL 


ABCADIA. 


23 


lad  run 
iiid  was 
ired  the 
with  his 
id  voice, 
arrive  at 
e  met  at 
Shall  we 
y  you  up 

tve  piven 
that'd  be 
iS  of  her 
!,  «  Well, 
5  here  in 

M(  ypey, 
ir.  Now 
iee  you ! " 

ran  tlie 
icbed  the 
bw,  Mas- 
t)erlain,  I 
ner?" 
candidly, 
since  I've 
3  village? 

'  you  sny 
)ur  will  is 
bring  my 
agnificent 
il  passage 
•manently 
)efore  the 
,ry  to  run 
rtek;  and 
upon  sea- 
u  feel  like 
1'  why  the 
(rear  black 
fork,  and 
ray  to  the 
;ern  civili- 
le  blood  of 
3en  rhym- 
:ing,'  ever 
is  present 


moment.— I  shall  write  a  volume  of  Sonnets  of  the  Sea,  and 
dedicate  them  duly  to  you— and  Miss  Meysey." 

As  for  Winifred,  with  a  red  rose  spreading  over  all  her  face, 
she  said  nothing;  but  twirling  her  hat  s+ili  in  her  hand,  she 
gazed  and  gazed  open-eyed,  and  almost  open-mouthed — except 
that  an  open  mouth  is  so  very  unbecoming — upon  the  wonderful 
stranger  with  the  big  dark  eyes,  who  had  thus  dropped  down 
from  the  clouds  upon  the  manor  of  Whitestrand.  He  was 
handsome,  indeed— as  handsome  as  her  dearest  dreams;  he  had 
a  black  moustache,  strictly  according  to  contract;  and  he 
talked  with  an  easy  offhand  airy  grace— the  easy  grace  of  the 
Cheyne  Eow  Club— that  was  wholly  foreign  to  all  her  previous 
experience  of  the  live  young  men  of  the  county  of  Suffolk.  His 
tongue  was  the  pen  of  a  ready  writer.  He  poured  forth  lan- 
guage with  the  full  and  regular  river-like  flow  of  a  practised 
London  journalist  and  first-leader  hand.  Crisp  adjectives  to 
him  came  easy  as  Yes  or  Ko,  and  epigram  flowed  from  his  lips 
like  water. 

"  I'll  put  her  in  nearer,"  Warren  Pelf  said  quietly,  after  a  few 
minutes,  glancing  with  mute  admiration  at  Elsie's  beautiful 
face  and  slim  figure. — "We're  in  no  hurry  to  go,  of  course, 
Massiiiger ;  we've  got  the  whole  day  all  free  before  us.— That's 
the  best  of  navigating  your  own  craft  you  see.  Miss  Challoner ; 
it  makes  you  independent  of  all  the  outer  world  beside.  Brad- 
shaw  ceases  to  exercise  over  you  his  iron  tyranny.  You've 
never  to  catch  the  four-twenty.  You  go  where  you  like ;  you 
stop  when  you  please ;  you  start  when  you  choose;  and  if,  when 
you  get  there,  you  don't  like  it,  why  you  simply  go  on  again  till 
you  reach  elsewhere.  It's  the  freest  life,  this  life  on  the  ocean 
wave,  that  ever  was  imagined ;  though  I  beliLve  Byron  has  said 
the  same  thing  already.— We'll  lie  by  here  for  half  an  hour, 
Hugh,  and  if  you  prefer  it,  I'll  put  you  ashore,  and  you  can  walk 
up  through  the  grounds  of  the  Hall,  while  I  navigate  the  ship 
to  the  Fisherman's  Best,  np  yonder  at  Whitestrand." 

As  he  spoke,  he  put  over  the  boom  for  a  moment,  to  lay  her 
in  nearer  to  the  roots  of  the  tree.  It  was  an  unlucky  movement. 
Winifred  was  sitting  close  to  the  water's  edge,  with  her  hat  in 
her  hand,  dangling  over  the  side.  The  boom,  flapping  suddenly 
in  the  wind  with  an  unexpected  twirl,  struck  her  wrist  a  smart 
blow,  and  made  her  drop  the  hat  with  a  cry  of  pain  into  the 
current  of  the  river.  Tide  was  on  tiie  ebb ;  and  almost  before 
they  had  time  to  see  what  had  happened,  the  hat  bad  floated  on 
the  swift  stream  far  out  of  reach,  and  was  careering  hastily  in 
circling  eddies  on  its  way  seaward. 

Hugh  Massinger  was  too  good  an  actor,  and  too  good  a 
swimmer  into  the  bargain,  to  let  slip  such  a  splendid  oppor- 
tunity foi  a  bit  of  cheap  and  effective  theatrical  dif-play.    Tho 


w^ 


iS-^ 


24 


TmS  MORTAL   COIL, 


!    ^1 


\ 


m  i:1; 


eyes  of  Europe  and  of  Elsie  were  upon  him — not  to  mention  the 
unknown  young  lady,  who,  for  aught  he  knew  to  the  contrary, 
might  perhaps  turn  out  to  be  a  veritable  heiress  to  the  manor 
of  Whitestrand.  He  had  on  his  old  gray  tourist  knickerbocker 
suit,  which  had  seen  service,  and  would  be  none  the  worse,  if  it 
cnme  to  that,  for  one  moie  wetting.  In  a  second,  he  had 
pulled  off  his  coat  and  boots,  sprung  lightly  to  the  further  deck 
of  the  Mud-Turtle,  and  taken  a  header  in  his  knickerbockers  and 
stockings  and  flannel  shirt  into  the  muddy  w  ater.  In  nothing 
does  a  handsome  man  look  handsomer  than  in  knickerbockers 
and  flannels.  The  tide  was  setting  strong  in  a  fierce  stream 
round  the  corner  of  the  tree,  and  a  few  slout  strokes,  made  all 
the  stouter  by  the  consciousness  of  an  admiring  trio  of  specta- 
tors, brought  the  enger  swimmer  fairly  abreast  of  the  truant  hat 
in  mid-current.  He  grasped  it  hastily  in  his  outstretched  hand, 
waved  it  with  a  flourish  high  above  his  head,  and  gave  it  a 
twist  or  two  of  playful  triumph,  all  wet  and  dripping,  in  his 
graceful  fingers,  bofoie  he  turned.  An  act  of  daring  is  nothing 
if  not  gracefully  or  masterfully  performed. — And  then  he 
wheelea  round  to  swim  back  to  the  yawl  again. 

In  that,  however,  he  had  reckoned  clearly  without  his  host. 
The  water  proved  in  fact  a  most  inliospitable  entertainer.  Hand 
over  hand,  lie  battled  hard  against  the  rapid  current,  tying  the 
recovered  hat  loosely  around  his  neck  by  its  ribbon  strings,  and 
striking  out  vigorously  with  his  cramped  and  trammelled  legs 
in  the  vain  effort  to  stem  and  breast  the  rushing  water.  For  a 
minute  or  so  he  struggled  manfully  with  the  tide,  putting  all 
his  energy  into  each  stroke  of  his  thighs,  and  making  his 
muscles  ache  with  the  violence  of  his  efforts.  But  it  was  all  to 
no  purpose.  The  stream  was  too  strong  for  him.  Human  thews 
could  never  bear  it  down.  After  thirty  or  forty  strokes,  he 
looked  in  front  of  him  casu'^lly,  and  saw,  to  his  surprise,  not  to 
Fay  discomfiture,  that  he  was  farther  away  from  the  yawl  than 
ever.  This  was  distressing — this  was  even  ignominious ;  to  any 
other  man  than  Hugh  Massinger,  it  would  indeed  have  been 
actually  alarming.  But  to  Hugh  the  ignominy  was  far  more 
than  the  peril :  he  was  so  filled  with  the  sentimental  and 
personal  side  of  the  difficulty — the  consciousness  that  he  was 
showing  himself  off  to  bad  advantage  before  the  eyes  of  two 
beautiful  girls — that  he  never  even  dreamt  of  the  serious  danger 
of  being  swept  out  to  sea  and  there  drowned  helplessly.  lie 
only  thought  to  himself  how  ridiculous  and  futile  he  must  needs 
look  to  that  pair  of  womankind  in  having  attempted  with  so 
light  a  heart  a  feat  that  was  utterly  beyond  his  utmost  powers. 

Vanity  is  a  mighty  ruler  of  men.  If  Hugh  Massinger  had 
stopped  there  till  he  died,  he  would  never  have  called  aloud  for 
help.    Better  death  with  honour,  on  the  damp  bed  of  a  muddy 


:  III 


BUB  WAN'S  ASS. 


25 


Qtion  the 
contrary, 
le  manor 
:erbocker 
orsG,  if  it 

he  had 
[her  deck 
ikers  ftnd 
I  nothing 
Brbockers 
je  stream 
,  made  all 
)t'  specta- 
ruant  hat 
iied  hand, 
»ave  it  a 
ig,  in  his 
s  nothing 

then   he 

his  host, 
er.    Hand 
tying  the 
rings,  and 
elled  legs 
r.    For  a 
utting  ail 
aking  his 
was  all  to 
nan  thews 
trokc'S,  he 
ise,  not  to 
yawl  than 
IS ;  to  any 
have  been 
far  more 
ental  and 
at  he  was 
■es  of  two 
)ns  danger 
Gssly.    lie 
mist  needs 
3d  with  so 
t  powers, 
singer  had 
aloud  for 
a  muddy 


Etrcam,  than  the  shame  and  sin  of  confessing  one's  self  openly 
btateu  in  fair  fight  by  a  mere  insignificant  tidal  river.  It  was 
Elsie  who  first  recognized  the  straits  he  ^  was  in— for  though 
love  is  blind,  yet  love  is  ehnrp-eyed— and  cried  out  to  Warren 
Eelf  in  an  agony  of  fear :  *'  He  can't  get  back !  The  stream's  too 
much  for  him !  Quick,  quick !  You've  not  a  moment  to  lose  I 
Put  about  the  boat  at  once  and  save  him ! " 

With  a  hasty  glance,  Eelf  saw  she  was  right,  and  that  Hugh 
was  unable  to  battle  successfully  with  the  rapid  current.  He 
turned  the  yawl's  head  with  all  speed  outward,  and  took  a 
quick  tack  to  get  behind  the  baffled  swimmer  and  intercept  him, 
if  possible,  on  his  way  towards  the  f  ea,  whitiier  he  was  now  so 
quickly  and  helplessly  drifting. 


CHAPTEE  IV. 

bukidan's  ass. 

For  a  minute  the  two  girls  stood  in  breathless  suspense :  then 
Warren  Eelf,  cutting  in  behind  with  the  yawl,  flung  out  a  coil 
of  rope  in  a  ring  towards  Hugh  with  true  seafaring  dexterity, 
so  that  it  struck  the  water  straight  in  front  of  his  face  flat 
like  a  quoit,  enabling  him  to  grasp  it  and  haul  himself  in 
without  the  slightest  difficulty.  The  help  came  in  the  nick  of 
time,  yet  most  inopportunely.  Hugh  would  have  given  worlds 
just  then  to  be  able  to  disregard  his  proffered  aid,  and  to  swim 
ashore  by  the  tree  in  lordly  independence  without  extraneous 
assistance.  It  is  grotesque  to  throw  yourself  wildly  in,  lika  a 
hero  or  a  Leander,  and  then  have  to  be  tamely  pulled  out  again 
by  another  fellow.  But  he  recognized  the  fact  that  the  struggle 
W'as  all  in  vain,  and  that  the  interests  of  English  literature  and 
of  a  well-known  insurance  office  in  which  he  held  a  small  life 
policy,  imperatively  demanded  acquiescence  on  his  part  in  the 
friendly  rescue.  He  grasped  the  rope  with  a  very  bad  grace 
indeed,  and  permitted  Eelf  to  haul  him  in,  hand  over  hand,  to 
the  side  of  the  Mud-Turtle. 

Yet,  as  soon  as  he  stood  once  more  on  the  yawl's  deck,  drip- 
ping and  unpicturesque  in  his  clinging  clothes,  but  with  honour 
safe,  and  the  lost  hat  now  clasped  tight  in  his  triumphant  right 
hand,  it  began  to  occur  to  liiui  that,  after  all,  the  little  adven- 
ture had  turned  out  in  its  way  quite  as  romantic,  not  to  say 
effective,  as  could  have  been  reasonably  expected.  He  did  not 
know  the  current  ran  so  fast,  or  perhaps  he  would  never  have 
attempted  the  Quixotic  task  of  recovering  that  plain  straw  hat 
with  the  blue  ribbon — worth  at  best  half  a  crown  net — from  its 


26 


THIS  MORTAL  COIL, 


)  i 


ir 


,  I 


\ 


%  I 


angry  eddies ;  yet  the  very  fact  that  he  had  expopod  himself  to 
danger,  real  danger,  however  unwittingly,  on  a  lady's  behalf, 
for  so  small  a  cause,  threw  a  not  unpleasing  dash  of  romance 
and  sentiment  into  his  foolish  and  foolhardy  bit  of  theatrical 
gallantry.  To  risk  your  life  for  a  plain  straw  hat — a^id  for  a 
lady's  sake — smacks,  when  one  comes  to  think  of  it,  of  antique 
chivalry.  He  forgave  himself  his  wet  and  unbecoming  attire,  as 
he  handed  the  hat,  with  as  graceful  a  bow  as  circumstances 
permitted,  from  the  yawl's  side  to  Winifred  Moysoy,  who 
stretched  out  her  hands,  all  blushes  and  thanks  and  apologetic 
regrets,  from  the  roo+s  of  the  poplar  by  the  edge,  to  receive  it. 

"  And  now,  Elsie,"  Hugh  cried,  with  such  virile  cheerfulness 
as  a  man  can  assume  who  stands  shivering  in  wet  clothes  before 
a  keen  east  wind,  "  perhaps  we'd  better  make  our  way  at  once 
up  to  Whitestrand  without  further  delay  to  change  our 
garments.  Hood  makes  garments  rhyme  under  similar  con- 
ditions to  'clinging  like  cerements,'  and  I  begin  to  perceive 
now  the  wisdom  of  his  allusion.  A  very  bud  rhyme,  but  very 
good  reason.  They  do  cling,  if  you'll  permit  me  to  say  so— they 
cling,  indeed,  a  trifle  unpleasantly. — Good-bye  for  the  present. 
I'll  see  you  again  this  afternoon  in  a  drier  and,  1  hope,  a  more 
becoming  costume. — Miss  Meysey,  I'm  afraid  your  hat's  spoiled. 
— Put  her  about  now,  Eelf.  Let's  run  up  quick.  I  dou't  mind 
how  soon  I  get  to  Whitestrand.'* 

Warren  Eelf  headed  the  yawl  round  with  the  wind,  and  they 
ran  merrily  before  the  stiff  breeze  up  stream  towards  the  village. 
Meanwhile,  Hugh  stood  still  on  the  deck  in  his  dripping  clothes, 
smiling  as  benignly  as  if  nothing  had  happened,  and  waving 
farewell  with  one  airy  hand — in  spite  of  chattering  teeth — to 
Elsie  and  Winifred.  The  two  girls,  taken  aback  by  the  incident, 
looked  after  them  with  arms  clasped  round  one  another's  waists. 
Winifred  was  the  first  to  break  abruptly  the  hushed  silence  of 
their  joint  admiration. 

"  Oh,  Elsie,"  she  cried, "  it  wa.s  so  grand !  Wasn't  it  just  mag- 
nificent; of  him  to  jump  in  like  that  after  my  poor  old  straw  ?  I 
never  saw  anythi'.ig  so  lovely  in  my  life.  Exactly  like  the  sort 
of  things  one  reads  about  in  novels!" 

Elsie  smiled  a  more  sober  smile  of  maturcr  appreciation. 
**  Hugh's  always  so,"  she  answered,  with  proprietary  pride  in 
her  manly  and  handsome  and  chivalrous  cousin.  "Ho  invari- 
ably does  just  the  right  thing  at  just  the  right  moment;  it's  a 
way  he  has.  Nobody  else  has  such  splendid  manners.  He's  the 
dearest,  nicest,  kindest-hearted  fellow "  She  checked  her- 
self suddenly,  with  a  flushed  face,  for  she  felt  her  own  .ansports 
needed  moderating  now,  and  her  praise  was  getting  perhaps 
somewhat  beyond  the  limits  of  due  laudation  as  expected  from 
cousins.    A  governess,  even  when  she  comes  from  Girton,  must 


.•i. 


M' 


BURIDAN*S  ASS, 


27 


raself  to 

}  behalf, 

romance 

heatriciU 

i.id  for  a 

'^1 

antique 

attire,  as 

mstances 

''^^H 

loy,  who 

pologetio 

eive  it. 

erfuhiess 

es  before 

y  at  once 

M 

nge   our 

1 

ilar  con- 

perceive 

but  very 

M 

so— they 
present. 

!,  a  more 
's  ppoiled. 
ou't  mind 

and  they 
le  ■village. 
ig  clothes, 
id  waving 
teeth — to 
3  incident, 
r's  waists, 
silence  of 

just  mag- 
straw  ?  I 
0  the  sort 

rtreciation. 
r  pride  in 
Ho  invari- 
ant ;  it's  a 
He's  the 
>cked  her- 
;ansports 
g  perhaps 
icted  from 
trton,  miist 


rise,  like  Cajsar's  wife,  above  suspicion.  It  must  be  generally 
understood  in  her  employer's  family,  that,  thotigh  apparently 
possessed  of  a  circulating  fluid  like  other  people's,  she  carries 
ro  such  compromising  and  damaging  an  article  as  a  heart  about 
with  her.  And  yet,  if,  as  somebody  once  observed,  there's  *'  a 
deal  of  human  nature  in  man,"  is  it  not  perhaps  just  eqnaUy 
true  that  there's  a  deal  of  the  self-same  perilous  commodity  ia 
wcman  also? 

The  men  marie  their  way  up  stream  to  WhifoKtrand,  and 
lauded  at  last,  with  an  easy  run,  beside  the  little  hitlio.  At  the 
village  inn— the  Fisherman's  Rest,  by  W.  Stannaway — Hujih 
Ma^sinper,  in  spite  of  his  dit^reputable  dampness,  soon  obtained 
comfortable  board  and  lodging,  on  Warren  lielfs  recommenda- 
tion. Eelf  was  in  the  habit  of  coming  to  Whilcstrand  fre- 
quently, and  was  "  well-beknown,"  as  the  landlord  remarked,  to 
the  entire  village,  children  included,  so  that  any  of  his  friends 
were  immediately  welcome  at  the  qunint  old  public-house  by  the 
water's  edge.  For  his  own  part  the  painter  preferred  the 
freedom  of  the  yawl,  where  he  paid  of  course  neither  rent  nor 
taxes,  and  came  and  went  at  his  own  free-will ;  but  as  Massinger, 
not  being  a  "  vagrom  man,"  n  eant  to  spend  his  entire  summer 
holiday  in  harness  at  Whitestrand,  he  desired  to  have  some 
more  Bettled  pied-a-terie  for  his  literary  labours  than  the  errant 
Mud- Turtle. 

"I'll  change  my  clothes  in  a  j  ffy,"  the  poet  cried  to  his 
friend  as  he  leapt  ashore,  "and  bo  back  with  you  at  once,  a 
new  creature. — Relf,  you'll  stop  and  have  some  lunch,  of  course. 
— 1  and  lord,  we'd  like  a  nice  tender  steak — you  can  raise  a  steak 
at  Whitestrand,  I  suppose  ? — That's  well.  Underdone,  if  you 
please. — Just  hand  me  out  my  portmanteau  there. — Thank 
you,  thank  you."  And  with  a  graceful  bound,  he  was  off  to  his 
room — a  low-roofed  old  chamber  on  the  ground-floor — as  airy 
and  easy  as  if  nothing  had  ever  occurred  at  all  to  ruffle  his 
temper  or  disturb  the  alfectedly  careless  set  of  his  immaculate 
collar  and  his  loosely  knotted  necktie. 

In  ten  minutes  he  emerged  again,  as  he  had  predicted,  in  the 
front  room,  another  man — an  avatar  of  glory— resplendent  in  a 
light-brown  velveteen  coat  and  Rembrandt  cap,  that  served  still 
nioie  obviously  than  ever  to  emphasize  the  full  nature  and 
extent  of  his  poetical  pretensions.  It  was  a  coat  that  a  laureate 
might  have  envied  and  dreamt  about.  The  man  who  could 
carry  Ruch  a  coat  as  that  could  surely  have  written  the  whole  of 
the  "  Divina  Commedia"  before  breakfast,  and  tossed  off  a  book 
or  two  of  "  Paradise  Lost"  in  a  brief  interval  of  morning  leisure. 

"Awfully  pretty  girl  that!"  he  said  as  he  entered,  and 
drummed  on  the  table  with  impatient  forefinger  for  the  expected 
steak ; — •'  the  little  one,  I  mocon,  of  course — nut  my  cousin.   Fair, 


1 


'i, 


28  .  THIS  MORTAL  COIL. 

too.  In  Rcme  ways  I  prefer  them  fair.  Tliough  dark  girls  have 
more  go  in  them,  after  all,  I  fancy ;  for  dark  and  tiue  and  tender 
is  tlic  North,  according  to  Tennyson.  But  fair  or  dark.  North 
or  South,  like  Horniman's  teas,  they're  *  all  good  alike,'  if  you 
take  them  as  assorted.  And  she's  charmingly  fresh  and  youth- 
ful and  naive." 

"She's  pretty,  certainly,"  Warren  Eelf  replied,  with  a  certain 
amount  of  unusual  stillness  apparent  in  his  manner;  "but  not 
anything  like  so  pretty,  to  my  mind,  or  so  graceful  either,  as 
your  cousin.  Miss  Challoner." 

"  Oh,  Elsie's  well  enough  in  her  own  way,  no  doubt,"  Hugh 
went  on,  with  a  smile  of  expansive  admiration.  "  I  like  them  all 
in  their  own  way.  I'm  nothing,  indeed,  if  not  catholic  and 
eclectic.  On  the  whole,  one  girl's  much  the  same  as  another, 
if  only  she  gives  you  the  true  poetic  thrill.  As  Alfred  de 
Mupset  calmly  puts  it,  with  delicious  French  bluntnes*^,  'Qu'im- 
porte  le  goblet  pourvu  qu'on  a  I'ivresse  ? '  Do  you  remember 
that  deliglitful  student  song  of  Blackie's  ? — 

*'  'I  can  like  a  hundred  women ; 
I  can  love  a  score  ; 
Only  one  with  heart's  devotion 
Worship  and  adore.* 

I  subscribe  to  that :  all  but  the  last  two  verses ;  about  those  I'm 
not  quite  so  certain.  As  to  loving  a  score,  I've  tried  it  experi- 
mentally, and  I  know  I  can  manage  it.  But  anyway,  Elsie's 
extremely  pretty.  I've  always  allowed  she's  extremely  pretty. 
The  trouble  of  it  is  that  she  hasn't,  unfortunately,  got  a  brasa 
farthing.  Not  a  sou,  not  a  cent,  not  a  doit,  not  a  stiver.  I 
don't  myself  know  the  precise  exchange  value  of  doits  and 
stivers,  but  I  take  them  to  be  something  exceptionally  frac- 
tional. I  could  rhyme  away  (without  prejudice)  to  Elsie  and 
Chelsea  and  braes  of  Kelsie,  or  even  at  a  pinch  could  bring  in 
Selsey — you  must  know  Selsey  Bill,  as  you  go  in  for  yachting 
— if  it  \^eren't  tliat  I  feel  how  utterly  futile  and  purposele?s  it 
all  is  when  a  girl's  fortune  consists  altogether  of  a  negative 
quantity  in  doits  and  stivers.  But  the  other — Miss  Meysey, 
now — who's  she,  I  wonder? — Good  name,  Meysey.  It  sounds 
like  money,  and  it  suggests  daisy.  There  was  a  Meysey  a 
banker  in  the  Strand,  you  know — not  very  daisy-like,  that,  is 
it? — and  another  who  did  something  big  in  the  legal  way — a 
judge,  I  fanpy. — He  doubtless  sat  on  the  royal  bench  of  British 
Thouiis  with  immense  applause  (which  was  instantly  sup- 
pressed), and  left  his  family  a  pot  of  money.  Meysey— lazy — 
crazy — hazy.  None  of  them'll  do,  you  see,  for  a  sonnet  but 
daisy.  How  many  more  Miss  Meyseys  are  there,  if  any?  I 
wonder.  And  if  not,  has  she  got  a  brother  ?  So  pretty  a  girl 
deserves  to  have  tin.    If  I  wore  a  childless,  rich  old  man,  I 


IS  ii 

I'i,:     i 


LUEIDAN'a  ASS. 


SO 


think  I'd  incontinently  establish  and  endow  her,  just  to  improve 
the  beauty  and  future  of  the  race,  on  the  striclubt  evolutionary 
and  Darwinian  priaciples." 

"  Her  father's  the  Squire  here,"  Warren  "Relf  rcplicfl,  with  a 
somewhat  uneasy  glance  at  Hugh,  shot  sideways.  "He  lords 
tlie  manor  and  a  groat  part  of  the  parish.  Wyville  Meyscy's  his 
full  name.  He's  rich,  they  say,  tolerably  rich  still;  thou^di  a 
big  slice  of  the  estate  south  of  the  river  has  been  swallowed  up 
by  the  sea,  or  buried  in  the  sand,  or  otherwise  disposed  of.  Tlio 
poa's  encroaching  greatly  on  this  coast,  you  know ;  some  places, 
like  Dunwich,  have  almost  all  toppled  over  bodily  into  tlio 
water,  churches  included ;  while  in  others,  the  shifting  sand  of 
tiie  country  has  just  marched  over  the  ground  like  a  conquering 
army,  pitching  its  tent  and  taking  up  its  quarters,  to  stay,  in 
the  meadows.  Old  Meysey's  lost  a  lot  of  land  that  way,  I 
believe,  on  the  south  side;  it's  covered  by  those  pretty  littlo 
wave-like  sandhills  you  see  over  yonder.  But  north  of  the  river 
tliey  say  he's  all  right.  That's  his  place,  the  bouse  in  the  fields, 
just  up  beyond  the  poplar.  I  daio  say  you  didn't  notice  it  as 
we  passed,  for  it's  built  low — Elizabethan,  half  hidden  in  the 
trees.  All  the  bife  houses  along  the  East  Coast  are  always 
planned  rather  squat  and  flat,  to  escape  the  wind,  which  runs 
riot  here  in  the  winter,  the  natives  say,  as  if  it  blew  out  of  the 
devil's  bellows!  But  it's  a  fine  place,  the  Hall,  for  all  that,  as 
places  go,  down  here  in  Suffolk.  The  old  gentleman's  connected 
with  the  bankers  in  the  Strand — some  sort  of  a  cousin  or  other, 
more  or  less  distantly  removed,  I  fancy." 

"And  the  sons?"  Hugh  asked,  with  evident  interest,  tracking 
the  subject  to  its  solid  kernel. 

"The  sons?  There  are  none.  They  had  one  once,  I  believe 
—a  dragoon  or  hussar — but  he  wa»  shot,  out  soldiering  in  Zulu- 
land  or  somewhere;  and  this  daughter's  now  the  sole  living 
representative  of  the  entire  family." 

"So  she's  an  heiress?"  Hugh  inquired,  getting  warmer  at 
last,  as  children  say  at  Hide-and-seek. 

"  Ye-es.  In  her  way — no  doubt,  an  heiress. — Not  a  very  big 
one,  I  suppose,  but  still  what  one  might  fairly  call  an  heiress. 
(She'll  have  whatever's  left  to  inherit.— You  seem  very  anxious 
to  know  all  about  her." 

"  Oh,  one  naturally  likes  to  know  where  one-  stands — ^before 
committing  one's  self  to  anything  foolish,"  Hugh  murmured 
placidly.  "  And  in  this  wicked  world  of  ours,  where  heiresses 
are  scarce — and  actions  for  breach  of  promise  painfully  common 
—one  never  knows  beforehand  where  a  single  false  step  may 
happen  to  land  one.  I've  made  mistakes  before  now  in  my 
life;  I  don't  mean  to  make  another  cue  throuijh  insufiicioub 
knowledge,  if  I  can  help  it." 

3 


1 

i 


1  ; 


I'M 


30 


Tina  MORTAL  COIL. 


■I 


Ho  took  up  a  pen  that  lay  upon  tho  tnblo  of  tlio  little  sitting- 
room  before  him,  and  began  drawing  idly  with  it  Bome  curious 
characters  on  tho  back  of  an  envelope  he  pulled  from  his  pocket. 
Belf  sat  and  watched  him  in  silence. 

Presently,  Massingcr  b(  gan  again.  "  You're  very  much  shocked 
at  my  sentiments,  1  can  see,"  ho  said  quietly,  us  he  glanced  with 
approval  at  his  careless  hiuroglyphics. 

Relf  drew  his  hand  over  his  beard  twice.  "Not  so  much 
shocked  as  grieved,  I  think,"  he  replied  afier  a  momeut'd  pause. 

"Why  grieved?" 

"  Well,  because,  Massingr r,  it  was  impossible  for  any  one  who 
saw  her  this  morning  to  doubt  that  Miss  Challouer  is  really  in 
love  with  you." 

Hugh  went  on  fiddling  with  tho  pen  and  ink  and  the  envelope 
nervously.  "  You  think  so?  "  lie  asked,  with  some  eagerness  in 
his  voice,  after  another  short  pause.  "You  think  she  really 
likes  me?" 

"I  don't  merely  think  fo,"  Eelf  answered  with  confidence; 
"  I'm  absolutely  certain  of  it— as  sure  as  I  ever  was  of  anything. 
Remember,  I'm  a  painter,  and  I  have  a  quick  eye.  She  was 
dce])ly  moved  when  she  saw  you  come.  It  meant  a  great  deal  to 
her. — I  should  be  sorry  to  think  you  would  play  fast  and  loose 
with  any  girl's  afifections." 

"It's  not  the  girl's  uflfections  I  play  fast  and  loose  with," 
Massenger  retorted  lazily.  "I  deeply  regret  to  say  it's  very 
murh  more  my  own  I  trifle  with.  I'm  not  a  fool ;  but  my  ouo 
weak  point  is  a  too  susceptible  disposition.  I  can't  help  falling 
in  love — really  in  love— not  merely  flirting — with  any  nice  girl 
1  happen  to  be  thrown  in  with.  I  write  her  a  great  many  pretty 
verses;  I  send  her  a  great  many  charming  notes;  I  say  a  gnat 
many  foolish  things  to  her;  and  at  the  time  I  really  mean  them 
all.  My  heart  is  just  at  tliat  precise  moment  the  theatre  of  a 
most  agreeable  and  unaffected  flutter.  I  think  to  myself,  *  This 
time  it's  serious.'  I  look  at  the  moon,  and  feel  sentunental.  I 
apostrophize  the  fountains,  meadows,  valleys,  hills,  and  groves 
to  forebode  not  any  severing  of  onr  loves.  And  then  I  go  away 
and  reflect  calmly,  in  the  solitude  of  my  own  chamber,  what  a 
precious  fool  I've  been — for,  of  oourfce,  tho  girl's  always  a  penni- 
less one— I've  never  had  the  luck  or  the  art  yet  to  captivate  an 
lieiress;  and  when  it  comes  to  breaking  it  all  off,  I  assure  you  it 
costs  me  a  severe  wrench,  a  wrench  that  I  wish  I  was  sensible 
enough  to  foresee  or  adequately  to  guard  agaiust,  on  the  preven- 
tion-better-than-cure  principle." 

"  And  the  girl  ?  "  Eelf  asked,  with  a  growing  sense  of  profound 
discomfort,  for  Elsie's  face  and  manner  had  instantly  touched 
him. 

"  The  girl,"  Massinger  replied,  putting  a  finishing  stroke  or 


DURIDAN'S  ASS. 


8X 


two  to  the  qiu'or  formless  sketch  ho  had  Kcmwlcd  upon  fho 
envelope,  and  lixing  it  np  on  tlie  frame  of  a  cheap  litlu)}j;rftj  'i 
that  hung  from  a  nail  u\m\  tho  wall  opposite;  "woll,  the  «j4 
probably  roj,'r(!t8  it  also,  thongh  not,  I  sincerely  trust,  so  juo 
foundly  as  1  do.  In  this  case,  however,  it's  a  comfort  to  think 
Elsie's  only  a  cousin.  Between  cousins  there  can  be  no  hur;ii, 
you  will  readily  admit,  in  a  little  innocent  flirtation." 

"It's  more  than  a  flirtation  to  her,  I'm  sure,"  Relf  answered, 
with  a  dubious  shako  of  tho  head.  '  "  She  takes  it  all  au  grand 
serleux. — I  hope  you  don't  mean  to  give  her  one  of  these  hoirid 
wrencheJi  you  talk  so  lightly  about? — Why,  Massingor,  what 
on  earth  is  ^ihis?  1 — I  didn't  know  you  could  do  this  sort  of 
thing!" 

Ho  had  walked  across  carelessly,  as  he  paced  tho  room,  to  tho 
lithograph  in  whose  frame  the  poet  had  slipped  the  buck  of  his 
envelope,  and  he  was  regarding  the  little  addition  now  with  eyes 
of  profound  astonishment  and  wonder.  The  picture  w-as  a 
coarsely  executed  portrait  of  a  distinguished  statesman,  reduced 
to  his  shirt-sleeves,  and  caught  in  the  very  act  of  felling  a  tree ; 
nnd  on  the  scrap  of  envelope,  in  exact  imitation  of  the  right 
honourable  gentleman's  own  familiar  signature,  Hugh  had 
written  in  bold  free  letters  the  striking  inscription,  "W.  E. 
Gladstone." 

The  poet  laughed.  "Yes,  it's  not  so  bad,"  he  said,  regarding 
it  from  one  side  with  par  jutal  fondness.  "  I  thought  they'd  pro- 
bably like  to  have  the  Grand  Old  Man's  own  genuine  autograph ; 
so  I've  turned  one  out  for  them  off-hand,  as  good  as  real,  and  twice 
as  legible.  1  flatter  myself  it's  a  decent  copy.  I  can  imitate 
anybody's  hand  at  sight. — Look  here,  for  exnmple ;  here's  your 
own."  And  taking  another  scrap  of  paper  from  a  bundle  in  his 
poclv-et,  he  wrote  with  rapid  and  practised  mastery,  "  Warren  H. 
Itclf"  on  a  corner  of  the  sheet  in  the  precise  likeness  of  tho 
painter's  own  large  and  flowing  handwriting. 

Eelf  gazed  over  his  shoulder  in  some  surprise,  not  wholly 
unminglcd  with  a  faint  touch  of  alarm.  "I'm  an  artist,  Mas- 
singer,"  he  said  slowly,  as  ho  scanned  it  close ;  "  but  I  couldn't 
do  that,  no,  not  if  you  were  to  pay  me  for  it.  I  could  paint 
anything  you  cho<e  to  set  me,  in  heaven  above,  or  earth  beneath, 
or  the  waters  that  are  under  the  earth ;  but  I  couldn't  make  a 
decent  fac- simile  of  another  man's  autograph. — And,  do  you 
know,  on  the  whole,  I'm  awfully  glad  that  I  could  never  pos- 
sibly learn  to  do  it." 

Massinger  smiled  a  languid  smile.  "In  the  hands  of  the 
foolish,"  ho  said,  addressing  his  soul  to  the  beefsteak  which  had 
at  last  arrived,  "no  doubt  such  abilities  are  liable  to  serious 
abuse.  But  the  wise  man  is  an  exception  to  all  rules  of  life :  he 
can  safely  be  trusted  with  edge-too' s.    We  do  well  in  refusing 


1 


a2 


Tins  TIOHTAL  COIL 


flrcftrms  to  cliildron:  prown  people  ran  employ  thorn  properly. 
I'm  never  afraid  of  any  faculty  or  kisowlodKo  on  earth  1  possess. 
I  know  seventeen  diutinct  wayH  of  cheating  at  loo,  without  the 
posiiibility  of  a  municnt's  detection,  and  yet  that  doesn't  prevent 
nie,  -whouever  1  play,  from  being  most  confoundedly  out  of 
I)()ckot  by  it.  The  man  who  distrusts  liimself  must  be  conscious 
of  weakness.  Depend  upon  it,  no  amount  of  knowledge  ever 
hurts  those  who  roi)08o  implicit  confidence  in  their  own  prudeuco 
and  their  own  bugacity." 


CHArTKR  Y. 


-I  ■: 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 

The  Girton  jroverness  of  these  latter  days  stands  on  a  very 
different  footing  indeed  in  the  family  from  the  forty-pound- a- 
year-and-all-found  young  person  who  mstructed  youth  as  a  final 
bid  for  life  in  the  last  geuerati<m.  She  ranks,  in  fact,  in  the 
unwritten  table  of  precedence  with  the  tutor  who  has  been  a 
university  man ;  and,  as  the  outwurd  and  visible  sign  of  her 
superior  position,  she  dines  with  tlie  rest  of  tlio  household  at 
seven-thirty,  instead  of  taking  an  early  dinner  in  the  school- 
room with  her  junior  pupils  off  hashed  mutton  and  rice- 
pudding  at  half-past  one.  Elsie  Ohalloner  had  been  a  Girton 
girl.  She  was  an  orphan,  left  with  little  in  the  world  but  her 
brains  and  her  good  looks  to  found  her  fortune  upon ;  and  she 
had  wisely  invested  her  whole  small  capital  in  getting  herself  an 
education  which  would  enable  her  to  tarn  herself  in  after  life  a 
moderate  livelihood.  In  the  family  at  Whitestrand,  where  she 
had  lately  come,  she  lived  far  more  like  a  friend  than  a  gover- 
ness :  the  difference  in  years  between  herself  and  Winifred  was 
not  extreme ;  and  the  two  girls,  taking  a  fancy  to  one  another 
from  the  very  first,  became  companions  at  once,  so  intimate 
together  that  Elsie  could  hardly  with  an  effort  now  and  again 
bring  herself  to  exert  a  little  brief  authority  over  the  minor 
details  of  Winifred's  conduct.  And,  indeed,  the  modern 
governess,  though  still  debarred  the  possession  of  a  heart,  is 
now  ro  longer  exactly  expected  to  prove  herself  in  everything  a 
moral  dragon :  she  is  permitted  to  recognize  the  existence  of 
humaa  instincts  in  the  world  we  inhabit,  and  not  even  forbidden 
to  concede  at  times  the  abstract  possibility  that  either  she  or 
her  pupils  might  conceivably  get  married  to  an  eligible  person, 
should  the  eligible  person  at  the  right  moment  chance  to 
present  himself,  with  the  custoninry  credentials  as  to  position 
and  prospects. 


1 , 


i:lective  affinities. 


33 


"I  womlcr,  Elsio,"  Winifred  snifl,  after  lunch,  "  wbclher  your 
C(>nsin  will  really  como  up  this  afternoon?  Perhaps  ho  won't 
row,  all^r  that  dreadful  wetting.  I  daro  Fay,  as  ho  only  canio 
down  in  the  yawl,  ho  hasn't  got  another  suit  of  clothes  with 
him.  I  shouldn't  bo  surprised  if  ho  iiad  to  go  to  bed  at  tho  inn, 
IIS  ]\Ir.  Eolf  does,  while  they  dry  his  things  for  him  by  tlio 
kitchen  firol  Mr.  Keif  never  brings  moro,  they  say,  than  \\m 
one  blue  jersey." 

*«  Tliat's  not  liko  Hugh,"  Elsio  answered  confidently.  "  ITngh 
wouldn't  go  anywhere,  by  sea  or  land,  without  proper  clothes 
for  every  possible  civilized  contingency.  He's  not  a  fop,  you 
know— he's  a  man  all  over — but  he  dresses  nicely  and  appro- 
priately always.  You  should  just  see  him  in  evening  clothes; 
he's  simply  beautiful  then.    They  suit  him  splendidly.'* 

♦'So  I  should  think,  dear,"  Winifred  answered  with  warmth. 
— "  I  wonder,  Elsie,  whether  papa  and  mamma  will  liko  your 
cousin  ?  " 

"It's  awfully  good  of  you,  darling,  to  think  so  much  of  what 
sort  of  reception  my  cousin  gets,"  Elsie  replied,  with  a  ki8S,  in 
pcil'cct  innocence.  (Winifred  blushed  faintly.)  "  But,  of  course, 
your  papa  and  mamma  are  sure  to  like  him.  Everybody  always 
does  liko  Hugh.  There's  something  about  him  that  insures 
success.  He's  a  universal  favourite,  wherever  he  goes.  He's  so 
clever  and  so  nice,  and  so  kind  and  so  sympathetic.  I  never 
met  anybody  else  so  sympathetic  as  Hugh.  He  knows  exactly 
beforehand  how  one  feels  about  everything,  and  makes  allow- 
ances BO  cordially  for  all  one's  little  private  sentiments.  I 
suppose  that's  the  poetic  temperament  in  hin».  Poetry  must 
mean  at  bottom,  I  should  think,  keen  insight  into  the  emotions 
of  others." 

"But  not  always  power  of  responding  sympathetically  to 
those  emotions. — Look,  for  example,  at  such  a  case  as  Goethe's," 
a  clear  voice  said  from  the  other  side  of  tho  hedge.  They  were 
walking  along,  as  they  often  walked,  with  arms  clasped  round 
one  another's  waists,  just  inside  the  grounds,  close  to  the  foot- 
path that  led  across  the  fields ;  and  only  a  high  fence  of  privet 
and  dog-rose  eepavated  their  conlidenccs  from  the  ear  of  the  for- 
I  tuitous  public  on  tho  adjoining  footpath.  So  Hugh  had  come  up, 
unawares  from  behind,  and  overheard  their  confidential  chit-chat ! 
How  far  back  had  he  overheard?  Elsie  wondered  to  herself.  If 
[he  had  caught  it  all,  she  would  be  so  ashamed  of  herself! 

"  Hugh  1 "  she  cried,  running  on  to  the  little  wicket  gate  to 
Imeet  him.  "  I'm  so  glad  you've  come.  It's  delightful  to  see  you. 
JBut  oh,  you  must  have  thought  us  two  dreadful  little  sillies. 
I — How  much  of  our  conversation  did  you  catch,  I  wonder  ?  " 

'  Only  the  last  sentence,"  Hugh  answered  lightly,  taking  both 
ler  hands  in  his  and  kissing  her  a  quiet  cousinly  kiss  on  hej 


IN 


\     ' 


■U 


(  ■ 


84 


THIS  MORTAL  COIL. 


If       !'•:  ! 


I 


hi 

I 


I 


Bmooth  broad  forehead.  "  Just  that  ahout  poetry  meaning  Iceen 
insight  into  the  emotions  of  others ;  so,  if  you  were  saying  any  ill 
about  me,  my  child,  or  bearing  false  witness  against  your  neigh- 
bour, you  may  rest  assured  at  any  rate  that  I  didn't  hear  it. — 
Good-morning,  Miss  Meysey.  I'm  recovered,  you  see :  dried  and 
clothed  and  in  my  right  mind — at  least,  I  hope  so.  I  trust  the 
hat  is  the  same  also." 

Winifred  held  out  a  timid  small  hand.  "It's  all  right,  thank 
you,"  she  said,  with  a  sudden  flush;  "but  I  shall  never,  never 
wear  it  again,  for  all  that.  I  couldn't  bear  to.  I  don't  think  you 
ought  to  have  risked  your  life  for  so  very  little." 

"  A  life's  nothing  where  a  lady's  concerned,"  Hugh  answered 
airily,  with  a  mock  bow.  "  But  indeed  you  give  me  credit  for 
too  much  gallantry.  My  life  was  not  in  question  at  all ;  I  only 
risked  a  delightful  bath,  which  was  somewhat  impeded  by  an 
unnecessarily  heavy  and  awkward  bathing-dress. — What  a 
sweet  place  this  is,  Elsie;  so  flowery  and  bowery,  when  you 
get  inside  it.  The  little  lane  with  the  roses  overhead  seems 
created  after  designs  by  Birket  Foster.  From  outside,  I  confers, 
to  a  casual  observer  the  first  glimpse  of  East  Anglian  sceuery  is 
by  no  means  reassuring.'* 

They  strolled  up  slowly  together  to  the  Hall  door,  where  the 
senior  branches  were  seated  on  tlie  lawn,  under  the  shade  of 
tlie  one  big  spreading  lime-tree,  enjoying  the  delicious  coolness 
of  the  breeze  as  it  blew  in  fresh  from  tlie  open  ocean.  Elsie  won- 
dered how  Hugh  and  the  Squire  would  get  on  together;  but  her 
wonder  indeed  was  little  needed;  for  Hugh,  as  she  had  said, 
always  got  on  admirably  with  everybody  evor\  where.  He  bad 
a  way  of  attacking  people  instinctively  on  their  strong  poiut; 
and  in  ten  minutes,  he  and  the  Squire  were  fast  friends,  united 
by  firm  ties  of  common  loves  and  common  animosities.  They 
were  both  Oxford  men — at  whatever  yawning  interval  of  time, 
that  friendly  link  forms  always  a  solid  bond  of  union  between 
youth  and  age ;  and  both  had  been  at  the  same  college,  Oriel. 
*'  I  dare  say  you  know  my  old  rooms,"  the  Squire  observed,  with 
a  meditative  sigh.  "  They  looked  out  over  Fellows'  Quad,  aud 
had  a  rhyming  Latin  hexameter  on  a  pane  of  stained  glass  in 
one  of  the  bay  windows," 

"  I  know  them  well,"  Hugh  answered,  with  a  rising  smile  of 
genuine  pleasure— for  he  loved  Oxford  with  a  love  passing  the 
love  of  her  ordinary  children.  "  A  friend  of  mine  had  them  in 
my  time.  And  I  remember  the  line :  '  Oxoniam  quare  venisti 
premeditare.*  An  excellent  leonine,  as  leoaincs  go,  though 
limp  in.  its  quantity. — Do  you  know,  I  fell  m  love  with  that 
pane  so  greatly,  that  I  had  a  wire  framework  made  to  put  over 
it,  for  fear  some  fellows  should  smash  it  some  night,  flinging 
about  oranges  at  a  noisy  wine-party." 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


85 


From  Oxford,  they  soon  got  off  upon  SuflFolk,  and  tho  en- 
croachment of  the  sea,  and  the  blown  sands ;  and  then  the  Squire 
insisted  upon  taking  Hugh  for  a  tour  du  proprietaire  round  the 
whole  estate,  with  running  comments  upon  the  wasting  of  the 
foreshore  and  the  abominable  remissness  of  the  Board  of  Admi- 
ralty in  not  erecting  proper  groynes  to  protect  the  interests  of 
coast-wise  proprietors.  Hugh  listened  to  it  all  with  his  grave 
face  of  profound  sympathy  and  lively  interest,  putting  in  from 
time  to  time  an  acquiescent  remark  confirmatory  of  the  wicked- 
ness of  government  officials  in  general,  and  of  the  delinquent 
I3oard  of  Admiralty  in  particulai-. 

"JEolian  sands!"  ho  said  once,  with  a  lingering  cadence, 
rolling  the  words  on  his  tongue,  as  the  Squire  paused  by  the  big 
poplar  of  that  morning's  adventure  to  point  him  out  the  blown 
dunes  on  the  opposite  shore — "JEolian  sands!  Is  that  what 
tliey  call  themV  How  very  poetical!  "What  a  lovely  word  to 
put  in  a  sonnet !  ^olian — just  the  very  thing  of  all  others  to 
go  on  all-fours  w'ith  an  adjective  like  Tmolian  ?— So  it  swallowed 
up  forty  acres  of  prime  salt-marsh  pasture — did  it,  really  ?  That 
must  have  been  a  very  serious  loss  indeed.  Forty  acres  of  prime 
salt-marsh!  I  suppose  it  w^as  the  sort  of  land  cove'ed  with  tall 
rank  reedy  grasses,  where  you  feed  those  magnificent  rough- 
coated,  lon<'-liorned,  Highland-looking  cattle  we  saw  tliis 
morning  ?  Splendid  beasts :  most  picturesque  and  regal.  *  Bulls 
that  walk  the  pastures  in  kingly-flashing  coats,'  George  Mere- 
dith would  call  them.  We  passed  a  lot  of  them  as  we  cruised 
up  stream  to-day  to  Whitcstrand. — And  the  sand  has  absolutely 
overwhelmed  and  wasted  it  all?  Dear  me!  dear  me!  What  a 
terrible  calamity!  It  was  the  Admiralty's  fault!  Might  make 
a  capital  article  out  of  that  to  bully  the  government  in  tho 
Morniny  Teh^ihone." 

"If  you  did,  my  dear  sir,"  the  Squire  said  warmly  with  an 
appreciative  nod,  "you'd  earn  the  deepest  gratitude  of  every 
owner  of  property  in  the  county  of  Sutfolk,  and  indeed  along 
the  whole  neglected  East  Coast.  The  way  we've  been  treated 
and  abused,  I  assure  you,  has  been  just  scandalous — simply 
scandalous.  Governments,  buff  or  blue,  have  all  alike  behaved 
to  us  with  incredible  levity.  When  the  present  disgraceful 
administration,  for  example,  came  into  power " 

Hugh  never  heard  the  remainder  of  that  impassioned  harangue, 
Ion*':  since  delivered  with  profound  gusto  on  a  dozen  distinct 
election  platforms.  He  was  dimly  aware  of  the  Squire's  voice, 
pouring  forth  denunciation  of  the  powers  that  be  in  strident 
umes  and  measured  sentences ;  but  he  didn't  listen ;  his  soul  was 
occupied  in  two  other  far  more  congenial  pursuits :  one  of  them, 
watching  Elsie  and  Winifred  with  Mrs.  Meysey;  the  other, 
trying  to  find  a  practical  use  for  M  >lian  sands  in  counectiou 


ll 


86 


THIS  MORTAL  COIL, 


m 


with  his  latest  projected  heroic  poem  on  the  Burial  of  Alan'o. 
JEolian ;  dashes :  Tmolian ;  abashes :  not  a  bad  substratum,  that, 
he  flattered  himself,  for  the  thunderous  lilt  of  his  opening 
stanza. 

It  was  not  till  the  close  of  the  afternoon,  however,  that  he 
could  snatch  a  few  seconds  alone  with  Elsie.  They  wandered 
off  by  themselves  then,  near  the  water's  edge,  among  the  thick 
shrubbery ;  and  Hugh,  sitting  dov.  n  in  a  retired  spot  under  the 
lee  of  a  sheltering  group  of  guelder-roses,  took  his  pretty  cousin's 
hands  for  a  moment  in  his  own,  and  looking  down  into  her  gieat 
dark  eyes  with  a  fond  look,  cried  laughingly,  "  Oh,  Elsie,  Elsie, 
this  is  just  what  I've  been  longing  for  all  day  long.  I  thought 
I  should  never  manage  to  get  away  from  that  amiable  old  bore, 
with  his  encroachments,  and  his  mandamuses,  and  his  groynes, 
and  his  interlocutors.  As  far  as  I  could  understand  him,  he 
wants  to  get  the  Board  of  Admiralty,  or  the  Court  of  Chancery, 
or  somebody  else  high  up  in  station,  to  issue  instructions  to  the 
east  wind  not  to  blow  ^olian  sands  in  future  over  his  sacred 
property.  It's  too  grotesque :  quite,  quite  too  laughable.  He's 
trying  to  bring  an  action  for  trespass  against  the  German  Ocean. 

•  Will  ye  bridle  the  deep  sea  with  reins  ?  will  ye  chasten  the  high  sea  with 
rods  ? 
Will  ye  take  her  to  chain  her  with  chains  who  is  older  than  all  ye  gods  ? ' 

Or  will  you  get  an  injunction  against  her  in  duo  form  on 
stamped  paper  from  the  Lord  Chief  J  ustice  of  England  ?  Canute 
tried  it  on,  and  found  it  a,  failure.  And  all  the  time,  while  the 
good  old  soul  was  moaning  and  droning  about  his  drowned 
land,  there  was  I,  just  sighing  and  groaning  to  get  away  to  a 
convenient  corner  with  a  pretty  little  cousin  of  mine  with  whom 
I  hiid  urgent  private  afltairs  of  my  own  to  settle. — My  dear  Elsie, 
Suffolk  agrees  with  you.  You're  looking  this  moment  simply 
charming." 

"  It's  your  own  fault,  Hugh,"  Elsie  answered,  with  a  blush, 
never  heeding  overtly  his  last  strictly  personal  observation. 
"You  shouldn't  make  yourself  so  universally  delightful.  I'm 
sure  I  thought,  by  the  way  you  talked  with  him,  you  were 
absolutely  absorbed  in  the  wasting  of  tlie  cliff,  and  personally 
affronted  by  the  aggressive  east  wind.  I  was  jusi  i>;  ginning  to 
get  quite  jealous  of  the  encroachments. — For  you  kl  >,-/,  Hugh, 
it's  such  a  real  pleasure  to  me  always  to  see  you." 

She  spoke  tenderly,  with  the  innocent  openness  of  an  old 
acqufiintance ;  and  Hugh,  still  holding  her  hand  in  his  own, 
leaned  forward  with  admiration  in  his  sad  dark  eyes,  and  put 
out  his  face  close  to  hers,  as  he  had  always  done  since  they  were 
children  together.  "One  kiss,  Elsie,"  he  said  persuasively. — 
•'Quick,  my  child;  we  m;iy  have   no  other  chance.     Tliose 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


■>.  ( 


37 


H 


dreadful  old  boros  "will  stick  to  ns  like  letcher      'Gather  ye 
rosea  while  you  may :  Old  Time  is  still  a-flying.  '' 

Elsie  drew  back  her  face  half  in  alarm.  "No,  no,  Hugh," 
she  cried,  struggling  with  him  for  a  second.  "We're  both 
growing  too  old  for  such  nonsense  now.  Eemember,  we've  ceased 
long  ago  to  be  children." 

"But  as  a  cousin,  Elsie/'  Hugh  said,  with  a  wistful  look  that 
belied  his  words. 

Else  preferred  in  her  own  heart  to  be  kissed  by  Hugh  on 
different  grounds;  but  she  did  not  say  so.  She  held  up  her 
face,  however,  with  a  rather  bad  grace,  and  Hugh  pressed  it  to 
his  own  tenderly.  "  That's  paradise,  my  houri,"  he  murmured 
low,  looking  deep  into  Iter  beautiful  liquid  eyes. 

"  0  son  of  my  uncle,  that  was  paradise  indeed  ;  but  that  was 
not  like  a  cousin,"  she  answered,  witli  a  faint  attempt  to  echo  his 
playfulness,  as  she  withdrew,  blushing. 

Hugh  laughed,  and  glanced  idly  round  him  with  a  merry  look 
at  the  dancing  water.  '*  You  may  call  it  what  you  like,"  he 
whispered,  with  a  deep  gaze  into  her  big  dnrk  pupil>'.  "  I  don't 
care  in  what  capacity  on  earth  you  consider  yourself  kissed,  so 
long  as  you  still  permit  me  to  kiss  you." 

For  ten  minutes  they  sat  there  talking— saying  those  thousand- 
and-one  sweet  empty  things  that  young  people  say  to  one  another 
under  such  circumstances— have  not  we  all  been  young,  and  do 
not  we  all  well  know  them  ? — and  then  Elsie  rose  with  a  sigh  of 
regret.  "I  think,"  she  said,  "  we  mustn't  stop  here  alone  any 
longer ;  perhaps  Mrs.  Moysey  wouldn't  like  it." 

"  Oh,  bother  Mrs.  Meysey!"  Hugh  cried,  with  an  angry  side- 
ward toss  of  his  head.  "  These  old  people  are  a  terrible  nuisance 
in  the  world.  I  wish  we  could  get  a  law  passed  by  a  triumphant 
majority  that  at  forty  everybody  was  to  be  promptly  throttled, 
or  at  least  transported.  There'd  be  some  hope  of  a  litcle  peace 
and  enjoyment  in  the  world  then." 

"  Oh,  but,  Hugh,  Mrs.  Meysey's  just  kindness  itself,  and  I 
know  she'll  let  you  come  and  see  me  ever  so  often.  She  said  at 
lunch  I  might  go  out  on  the  water  or  anywhere  I  liked,  when- 
ever I  chose,  any  time  with  my  cousin." 

"A  very  sensible,  reasonal)le,  intelligent  old  lady,"  Hugh 
answered  approvingly,  with  a  mollifi'-J.  nod.  "I  wish  they  were 
all  as  wise  in  their  generation.  The  profession  of  chaperon,  like 
most  others,  has  been  overdone,  and  would  be  all  the  better  now 
for  a  short  turn  of  judicious  thinning. — But,  Elsie,  youve  told 
them  I  was  a  cousin,  I  see.  That's  quite  right.  Have  you  ex- 
plained to  them  in  detail  the  precise  remoteness  of  our  actual 
relationship  ?  " 

Elsie's  lip  quivered  visibly.  "No,  Hugh,"  she  answered, 
"  But  why  ?    Does  it  matter  ?  " 


1 1 


•:i 


Hi 


n 


THIS  MORTAL   COIL. 


AM 


"  Not  at  all — not  at  all.  Very  much  the  contrary.  I'm  glad 
you  didn't.  It's  better  so.  If  I  were  you,  my  child,  I  think,  do 
you  know,  I'd  allow  them  to  believe,  in  a  qniet  sort  of  way — 
unless,  of  course,  they  ask  you  point-blank,  that  you  and  I  are 
first-cousins.  It  facilitates  social  intercourse  considerably. 
Coiisinhood's  such  a  jolly  indefinite  thiup,  one  may  as  well 
enjoy  as  long  as  possible  the  full  benefit  of  its  charming 
vaguemss." 

"  But,  Hugh,  is  it  right  ?  Do  you  think  I  ought  to  ? — I  mean, 
oughtn't  I  to  let  theni  know  at  once,  just  for  that  very  reason, 
huw  slight  the  relationship  really  is  between  us?  " 

"  The  relationship  is  not  slight,"  Hugh  answered  with  warmth, 
darting  an  eloquent  glance  deep  down  into  her  eyes.  "  The 
relationship's  a  great  deal  closer,  indeed,  than  if  it  were  a  much 
nearer  one. — That  may  be  paradox,  but  it's  none  the  less  true, 
for  all  that. — Still,  it's  no  use  arguing  a  point  of  casuistry  with 
a  real  live  Girton  girl.  You  know  as  much  about  ethics  as  I  do, 
and  a  great  deal  more  into  the  bargain.  Only,  a  cousin's  a 
cousin  anyhow ;  and  I  for  my  part  wouldn't  go  out  of  my  way 
to  descend  gratuitously  into  minute  genealogical  particulars  of 
once,  twice,  thrice,  or  ten  times  removed,  out  of  pure  puritanism. 
These  questions  of  pedigree  are  always  tedious.  What  subsists 
all  through  is  the  individual  fact  that  1  w  Hugh,  and  you're 
Elsie,  and  that  I  love  you  dearly — of  course  with  a  purely 
cousinly  degree  of  devotion." 

"  Hugh,  you  needn't  always  flourish  that  limitation  in  my  face, 
like  a  broomstick.** 

"  Caution,  my  dear  child — mere  ingrained  caution — the  solitary 
resource  of  poverty  and  wisdom.  What's  the  good  of  loving  you 
dearly  on  any  other  grounds,  I  should  like  to  know,  as  long  as 
poetry,  divine  poetry,  remains  a  perfect  drug  in  the  publishing 
market?  A  man  and  a  girl  can't  live  on  bread  and  cheese  and 
the  domestic  affections,  can  they,  Elsie?  Very  well,  then,  for 
the  present  we  are  both  free.    If  ever  circumstances  should  turn 

out  differently "    The  remainder  of  that  sentence  assumed 

a  form  inexpressible  by  the  resources  of  printer'b  ink,  even  with 
the  aid  of  a  phonetic  spelling. 

When  they  turned  aside  from  the  guelder-roses  at  last  with 
crimson  laces,  they  strolled  side  by  side  up  to  the  house  once 
more,  talking  about  the  weather  or  some  equally  commonplace 
and  uninteresting  subject,  and  joined  the  Mcyj-eys  under  the  big 
tree.  The  Squire  had  disappeared,  and  Winifred  came  out  to 
meet  them  on  the  path.  "Mamma  says,  Mr.  Massinger,"  she 
began  timidly, "  we're  going  a  little  picnic  all  by  ourselves  on  the 
river  to-morrow — up  among  the  sandhills  papa  was  showing  you. 
They're  a  delicious  place  to  picnic  in,  the  sandhills;  and  mamma 
thinks  perhaps  you  wouldn't  mind  coming  to  join  us,  and 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


39 


briBglng  your  friend  the  artist  with  yon.  But  I  dare  say  you  won't 
care  to  come :  there'll  be  only  ourselves— just  a  family  party." 

"My  tastes  are  catholic,"  Hugh  answered  jauntily.  "I  love 
all  innocent  amusements — and  most  wicked  ones.  There's 
nothing  on  earth  I  should  enjoy  as  much  as  a  picnic  in  the  sand- 
hills.— You'll  be  coming  too,  of  course,  won't  y^/U,  Elsie  ? — ^Very 
veil, then.  I'll  bring  Eelf,  and  the  Mud-Turtle  to  boot.  I  know 
he  wants  to  go  rriud-painting  himself.  .He  may  as  well  take  us 
all  up  in  a  body." 

"  We  shall  do  nothing,  you  know,"  Winifred  cried  apologeti- 
cally. "We  sliall  only  just  sit  on  the  sandhills  and  talk,  or 
pick  yellow  horned-poppies,  and  throw  stones  into  the  sea,  and 
behave  ourselves  generally  like  a  pack  of  idlers.'^ 

"  That'll  exactly  suit  me,"  Hugh  replied,  with  a  smile.  "  My 
most  marked  characteristics  are  indolence  and  the  practice  of 
the  Christian  virtues.  I  hate  the  idea  that  when  people  invite 
their  friends  to  a  feast  they're  bound  to  do  something  or  other 
definite  to  amuse  them.  It's  an  insult  to  one's  intelligence ;  it's 
degrading  one  to  the  level  of  innooent  childhood,  which  has  to 
bo  kept  engaged  with  Blindman's  Buff  and  an  unlimited  supply 
of  Everton  toffee,  for  fear  it  should  bore  itself  with  its  own  in- 
anity. On  that  ground,  I  consider  music  and  games  at  suburban 
parties  the  resource  of  incompetence.  Sensible  people  find 
enough  to  amuse  them  in  one  another's  society,  without  playing 
duml)  crambo  or  asking  riddles.  Eelf  and  I  will  find  more  than 
enough,  I'm  sure,  to-morrow  in  yours  and  Elsie's." 

lie  shook  hands  with  them  all  round  and  raised  hi?  hat  in 
farewell  with  that  inimitable  grace  which  was  Hugh  M.issinge'.'s 
])e(Uiliar  property.  When  he  left  the  Hall  that  afternoon,  he 
loft  four  separate  conquests  behind  liim.  The  Squire  thought 
this  London  newspaper  fellow  was  a  most  sensible,  right-minded, 
intelligent  young  man,  with  a  head  on  his  shoulders,  and  a  com- 
plete comprehension  of  the  rights  and  wrongs  of  the  intricate 
riparian  proiDrietors'  question.  Mrs.  Meysey  thought  Elsies 
cousin  was  most  polite  and  attentive,  as  well  as  an  extremely 
high-principled  and  excellent  person.  (Ladies  of  a  certain  age 
are  always  strong  on  the  matter  of  principles,  which  they  discuss 
as  though  they  were  a  definitely  measurable  quantity,  like  money 
or  weight  or  degrees  Fahrenheit.)  Winifred  thought  Mr. 
Massinger  was  a  born  poet,  and  oh,  so  nice  and  kind  and 
iilipreciative.  Elsie  thought  dear  darling  Hugh  was  just  the 
same  good,  sweet,  sympiithetic  old  friend  and  ally  and  comforter 
as  ever.  And  they  all  four  united  in  thinking  he  was  very 
handsome,  very  clever,  very  brilliant,  and  very  delightful. 

As  for  Hugh,  he  thought  to  himself,  as  he  sauntered  back  by 
the  rose-bordered  lane  to  the  village  inn,  that  the  Squire  was  a 
most  portentous  and  heavy  old  nuisance;  that  Mrs.  Wyville 


% 


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1  1 


:.i:* 


40 


THIS  MORTAL  COIL, 


Meysey  was  a  comic  old  creature  ;  that  Elsie  was  really  a  most 
charming  girl ;  and  that  Winifred,  in  spite  of  her  bread-and- 
butter  blushes,  wasn't  half  bad,  after  all— for  an  heiress. 

The  heiress  is  apt  to  be  plain  and  forbidding.  She  is  not  fair 
to  outward  view,  *as  many  maidens  be.  Her  beauty  has  solid, 
not  to  say  strictly  metallic  qualities,  and  resides  principally  in 
a  safe  at  her  banker's.  To  have  tracked  down  an  heiress  who 
was  also  pretty  was  indeed,  Hugh  felt,  a  valuable  discovery. 

When  he  reached  the  inn,  he  found  Warren  Eelf  just  returned 
from  a  sketching  expedition  up  the  tidal  flats.  "  Well,  Relf," 
he  cried,  "you  see  me  triumphant.  I've  been  reconnoitring 
Miss  Meysey's  outposts,  with  an  ultimate  view  to  possible  siege 
operations.  To  judge  by  the  first  results  of  my  reconnaissance, 
she  seems  a  very  decent  sort  of  little  girl  in  her  own  way.  If 
sonnets  will  carry  her  by  storm,  I  don't  mind  discharging  a  few 
cartloads  of  them  from  a  hundred- ton-gun  point-blank  at  her 
outworks.  Most  of  them  can  be  used  again,  of  course,  in  case  of 
need,  in  another  campaign,  if  occasion  oilers." 

"  And  Miss  Challoner  V  "  Eelf  suggested,  with  some  reproof  in 
his  tone.    *•  Was  she  there  too ?    Have  you  seen  her  also?" 

"  Yes,  Elsie  was  there,"  the  poet  answered  unconcernedly,  as 
he  rang  the  bell  for  a  glass  of  soda-water.  "  Elsie  was  there, 
looking  as  charming  and  as  piquante  and  as  pretty  as  ever; 
and,  by  Jove !  she's  the  cleverest  and  brightest  and  most  amusing 
girl  I  ever  met  anywhere  up  and  down  in  England.  Though 
she's  my  own  cousin, and  it's  me  that  says  it,  as  oughtn't  to  say 
it,  she's  a  credit  to  the  family.  J.  like  Elsie.  At  times,  I've 
almost  half  a  mind,  upon  my  soul,  to  fling  prudence  to  the 
winds,  and  ask  her  to  come  and  accept  a  share  of  my  poor  crust 
in  my  humble  garret. — But  it  won't  do,  you  know — it  won't  do. 
Sine  Cerere  et  Baccho,friget  Venu$.  Either  I  must  make  a  fortune 
at  a  stroke,  or  I  must  marry  a  girl  with  a  fortune  ready  made 
to  my  hand  already.  Love  in  a  cottage  is  all  very  well  in  its 
way,  no  doubt,  with  roses  and  eglantine— whatever  eglantine 
may  be— climbing  round  the  windows ;  but  love  in  a  hovel — 
which  is  the  plain  prose  of  it  in  these  hard  times — can  j  .le 
considered  either  pretty  or  poetical.  Unless  some  Columbus  of 
a  critic,  cruising  through  reams  of  minor  verse,  discovers  my 
priceless  worth  some  day,  and  divulges  me  to  the  world,  there's 
no  chance  of  my  ever  being  able  to  afford  anything  so  good  and 
sweet  as  Elsie. — But  the  other  one's  a  nice  small  girl  of  her 
sort  too.  I  think  for  my  part  I  shall  alter  and  amend  those 
quaint  little  verses  of  Blackie's  a  bit — make  'em  run : 

'  I  can  like  a  hundred  women  5 

I  can  love  a  score  ; 
Only  with  a  heart'8  devotion 
Worship  three  or  four.'  " 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


41 


T»elf  laughed  merrily  in  spite  of  himself. 

Massinger  went  on  musing  in  an  undertone :  "  Not  thnt  I 
like  the  first  and  third  lines  as  they  stand,  at  all:  a  careful 
versifier  would  have  insisted  upon  rhyming  them.  I  should 
have  made  '  devotion '  chime  in  with  *  ocean,'  or  *  lotion,'  or 
•Goshen/  or  'emotion,'  or  something  of  that  sort,  to  polish  it 
up  a  bit.  There's  very  good  businecs  to  be  got  out  of  'emotion,' 
if  you  work  it  properly;  but '  ocean'  com(>s  in  handy,  too,  down 
here  at  Whitestrand.  I'll  dress  it  up  into  a  bit  of  verse  this 
evening,  I  think,  for  Elsie — or  the  other  girl. — Winifred's  her 
Christian  name.  Hard  case,  Winifred.  'Been  afraid'  is  only 
worthy  of  Browning,  who'd  perpetrate  anything  in  the  way  of 
a  rhyme  to  save  himself  trouble.  Has  a  ftilse  Ingoldsby  gallop 
of  verse  about  it  that  I  don't  quite  like.  Winnie's  comparatively 
easy,  of  course :  you've  got '  skinny '  and  '  finny,'  and  '  Minnie ' 
and  'spinney.'  But  Winifred's  a  very  hard  case  indeed. 
'Winnie'  and  'guinea'  are  good  enough  rhymes;  but  not 
quite  new :  they've  been  virtually  done  before  by  Kossetti,  you 
know : 

'  T,nzy,  Iftughing,  lnnf»iiid  Jenny, 
l''uud  of  a  kiss  aud  foad  of  a  guinea.' 

But  I  doubt  if  I  could  ever  consent  to  make  love  to  a  girl 
wliose  name's  so  utterly  and  atrociously  unmanageable  as  plain 
Winifred. — Now,  Mary— there's  a  name  for  you,  if  you  like: 
with  '  fiii  J '  and  '  airy,'  and  '  chary '  and  '  vagary,'  and  all  sorts 
of  other  jolly  old-world  rhymes  to  go  with  it.  Or,  if  you  want 
to  be  rural,  you  can  bring  in  '  dairy ' — do  the  pretty-milkmaid 
business  to  perfection.  But  '  Winifred ' — '  bin  afraid ' — the 
thing's  impossible.  It  compels  you  to  murder  the  English 
language.  I  wouldn't  demean  myself — or  I  think  it  ought  to 
be  by  rights  bemean  myself— by  writing  verses  to  her  with  such 
a  name  as  that. — I  shall  send  them  to  Elsie,  who,  after  all> 
deserves  them  more,  aud  will  be  flattered  with  the  attention 
into  the  bargain." 

At  ten  o'clock,  he  came  out  once  more  from  his  own  room  to 
the  little  parlour,  where  Warren  Eelf  was  seated  "cooking"  a 
sky  in  one  of  his  hasty  seaside  sketches.  He  had  an  envelope 
in  his  hand,  and  a  hat  on  his  head.  "Where  are  you  oli?" 
lielf  asked  carelessly. 

"  Oh,  just  to  the  post,"  Hugh  Massinger  answered,  with  a  gay 
nod.  "I've  finished  my  new  batch  of  verses  (m  the  oc3an— 
emotion — potion — devotion  theme,  and  I'm  sending  them  off,  all 
hot  from  the  oven,  to  my  cousin  Elsie. — They're  not  bad  in  their 
way.  I  like  them  myself.  I  shall  print  them,  I  think,  in  next 
week's  AthencBum. 


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42 


THIS  MORTAL  COIL. 


:ii 


CHAPTER  VI. 

WHICH   LADY? 

Hugh  found  the  day  among  the  sandhills  simply  delightful. 
He  had  said  with  truth  ho  loved  all  innocent  pleasures,  for  liis 
was  one  of  those  sunny,  many-sided,  testhetic  natures,  in  spite 
of  its  underlying  tinge  of  pessimism  and  sadness,  that  throw 
themselves  with  ardour  into  every  simple  country  delight,  and 
find  deep  enjoyment  in  trees  and  flowers  and  waves  and  scenery, 
in  the  scent  of  new-mown  hay  and  the  song  of  birds,  and  in 
social  intercourse  with  beautiful  women.  Warren  Eelf  had 
readily  enough  fallen  in  with  Hugh's  plan  for  their  day's  outing; 
for  Warren  Eelf  in  his  turn  was  human  too,  and  at  a  first  glance 
he  had  been  greatly  taken  with  Hugh's  pretty  cousin,  the  dark- 
eyed  Girton  girl.  His  possession  of  the  Mud-Turtle  gave  hira 
for  the  moment  a  title  to  respect,  for  a  yacht's  a  yacht,  however 
tmy.  So  he  took  them  all  up  together  in  the  yawl  to  the  foot 
of  the  sandhills;  and  while  Mrs.  Meysey  and  the  girls  were 
unpacking  the  hampers  and  getting  lunch  ready  on  the  white 
slopes  of  the  drifted  dunes,  ho  sat  down  by  the  shore  and 
sketched  a  little  bit  of  the  river  forecjround  that  exactly  suitc<l 
his  own  peculiar  style — an  islet  of  mud,  rising  low  from  the  bed 
of  the  sluggish  stream,  crowned  with  purple  sea-aster  and 
white-flowered  scurvy-grass,  and  backed  by  a  slimy  bed  of  tidal 
ooze,  that  shone  with  glancing  rays  of  gold  and  crimson  in  the 
broad  flood  of  the  reflected  sunlight. 

Elsie  was  very  happy,  too,  in  her  way;  for  had  she  not  Hugh 
all  the  time  by  her  side,  and  was  she  not  wearing  the  ardent 
verses  she  had  received  from  him  by  post  that  very  morning, 
inside  her  dress,  pressed  close  against  her  heart,  a_i  rising  and 
falling  with  every  pulse  and  flutter  of  her  bosom?  To  him,  the 
handicraftsman,  they  were  a  mere  matter  of  ocean,  and  potion, 
and  lotion,  and  devotion,  strung  together  on  a  slender  thread  of 
pretty  conceit;  but  to  her,  in  the  innocent  ecstasy  of  a  first 
great  love,  they  meant  more  than  words  could  possibly  utter. 

She  could  not  thank  him  for  them;  her  pride  and  delight 
went  too  deep  for  that ;  and  even  were  it  otherwise,  she  had  no 
opportunity.  But  once,  while  they  stood  together  by  the 
sounding  sea,  with  Winifred  by  their  side,  looking  critically  at 
the  picture  Warren  Eelf  had  sketched  in  hasty  outline,  and 
began  to  colour,  she  found  an  occasion  to  let  the  poet  know,  by 
a  graceful  allusion,  she  had  received  his  little  tribute  of  verso 
in  safety.    As  the  painter  with  a  few  dainty  strokes  tilled  in  the 


WHICH  LADY9 


43 


floating  iridescent  tints  upon  tho  sunlit  oor.o,  isho  murmured 
aloud,  as  if  quoting  from  some  well-known  poem : 

*'lie(l  strands  that  faintly  fleck  anil  spot 
Tho  tawny  flood  thy  banks  cut'old  { 
A  woof  of  Tyrian  purple,  shot 
Through  cloth  of  gold." 

Hugh  looked  up  at  her  appreciatively  with  a  smile  of  recog- 
nition. They  v/ere  his  own  versos,  out  of  the  Song  of  tho  Char 
he  had  written  and  posted  to  her  tho.  night  before.  "Jilcro 
faint  Swinburnian  echoes,  nothing  worth,"  ho  murmured  low  in 
a  deprecating  aside ;  but  he  was  none  the  less  flattered  at  tho 
delicate  attention,  for  all  that.  "  And  how  clever  of  her,  too," 
lie  thought  to  himself  with  a  faint  thrill,  "  to  have  pieced  them 
in  so  deftly  with  the  subject  of  the  picture  1  After  all,  she's  a 
very  intelligent  girl,  Elsie  I  A  man  migiit  go  further  and  faro 
worse— if  it  were  not  for  that  negative  quantity  in  doits  and 
stivers." 

Warren  Eclf  looted  up  also  with  a  quick  glance  at  the  dark- 
eyed  gill.  "  You're  right.  Miss  Chal loner,"  he  said,  stealing  a 
lover's  side-look  at  the  iridescent  peacock  hues  upon  the  gleam- 
ing mud.  "It  shines  like  opal.  No  precious  stone  on  earth 
could  be  lovelier  than  that.  Few  people  have  the  eye  to  see 
beauty  in  a  flat  of  tidal  mud  like  the  one  I'm  "oainting;  but 
cloth  of  gold  and  Tyrian  purple  are  the  only  words  one  could 
possibly  find  to  express  in  fit  language  the  glow  and  glory  of  its 
exquisite  colouring.  If  only  I  could  put  it  on  canvas  now,  as 
you've  put  it  in  words,  even  the  Hanging  Committee  of  tho 
Academy,  I  believe — hard-hearted  monsters — would  scarcely  bo 
stony  enough  to  dream  of  rejecting  it." 

Elsie  smiled.  How  every  man  reads  things  his  own  way,  by 
the  light  of  his  own  personal  interests !  Hugh  had  seen  she  was 
trying  to  thank  him  unobtrusively  for  his  copy  of  verses; 
Warren  Relf  had  only  found  in  her  apt  quotation  a  passing 
criticism  on  his  own  little  water-colour. 

After  lunch,  the  two  seniors,  the  Squire  and  Mrs.  Meysey, 
manifested  the  distinct  desire  of  middle  ago  for  a  quiet  digestion 
ill  the  shade  of  the  sandhills;  and  the  four  younger  folks, 
nothing  loth  to  be  free,  wandered  off  in  pairs  at  their  own  sweet 
will  along  the  bank  of  the  river.  Hugh  took  Elsie  for  his 
companion  at  first,  while  Warren  Relf  had  to  put  himself  off  for 
the  time  being  with  the  blue-eyed  Winifred.  Now  lielf  hated 
blue  eyes.  "But  we  must  arrange  it  like  a  set  of  Lancers," 
Hugh  cried  with  an  easy  flourish  of  his  graceful  hand;  "at  the 
end  of  the  figure,  set  to  corners  and  change  partners."  Elsie 
might  have  felt  half  jealous  for  a  moment  at  this  equitable 
snggestion,  if  Hugh  hadn't  added  to  her  in  a  lower  tone,  and 
with  his  sweetest  gmilo :  *'  I  mustn't  monopolize  you  all  the 


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41 


Tins  MORTAL   COIL. 


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afternoon,  you  know,  Elsio;  Eelf  mnst  have  liis  innings  too;  I 
can  SCO  by  liis  face  he's  ju«t  dyin^'  to  talk  to  you." 

"  I'd  rather  a  great  deal  talk  witU  you,  liiigh,"  Elsio  mnr- 
murcd  gently,  looking  down  at  tlio  sands  with  an  apparently 
sudden  geological  interest  in  their  minute  composition. 

"  I'm  proud  to  licar  it ;  so  would  J,"  Hugh  answered  gallantly. 
"But  we  mustn't  be  scHish.  I  hato  seltishness.  I'll  sacrilicu 
myself  by-and-by  on  the  altar  of  fraternity  to  give  Kclf  a  turn 
in  due  season.  Meanwhile,  Elsie,  Iol'b  be  happy  together  wIijIo 
we  can.  Moments  like  those  don't  come  to  one  often  in  the 
course  of  a  lifetime.  They're  as  rare  as  rubies  and  as  all  good 
things.  When  they  do  come,  1  prize  them  far  too  mucii  lo 
think  of  wasting  them  in  petty  altercation." 

They  strolled  about  among  the  undulating  dunes  for  an  horr 

or  more,  talking  in  that  vague  emotional  way  that  young  men 

and  maidens  naturally  fall  into  when  they  walk  together  by  the 

shore  of  the  great  deep,  and  each  very  much  pleased  with  the 

other's  society,  us  usually  happens  under  similar  circumstances. 

The  dunes  were  indeed  a  lovely  place  fo.'  flirting  in,  as  if  made 

for  the  purpose — high  billowy  hillocks  of  blown  sand,  all  white 

and  firm,  and  rolling  like  chalk  downs,  but  matted  together 

underfoot  with  a  tussocky  network  of  spurges  and  campions 

and  soldanella  convolvulus.    In  the  tiny  combes  and  valleys  in 

between,  where  tall  reed-like  grasses  made  a  sort  of  petty 

imitation  jungle,  you  could  sit  down  unobserved  under  the  lee 

of  some  min?i3  range  of  mountains,  and  take  your  ease  in  an 

enchanted  garden,  like  sultans  and  sultanas  of  the  "Arabijin 

Nights,"  without  risk  of  intrusion.    The  sea  tumbled  in  gently 

on  one  side  upon  the  long  white  beach ;  the  river  ran  on  the 

other  just  within  the  belt  of  blown  sandhills;  and  wedged 

Ibetween  the  two,  in  a  long  line,  the  barrier  ridge  of  miniature 

wolds  stretched  away  for  miles  and  miles  in  long  perspective 

towards  the  southern  horizon.   It  was  a  lotus-eatij^g  place,  to  lie 

down  and  dream  and  make  love  in  for  ever.    As  Hugh  sat  there 

idly  with  Elsie  by  his  side  under  the  lee  of  the  dunes,  he 

wondered  the  (Squire  could  ever  have  had  the  bad  taste  to  object 

to  tlie  generous  east  wind  which  had  overwhelmed  his  miserable 

utilitarian  salt-marsh  pastures  with  this  quaint  little  fairyland 

of  tiny  knolls  and  Liliputian  valleys.    For  his  own  part,  Hugh 

was  duly  grateful  to  that  unconscious  atmospheric  landscape 

gardener  for  his  admiiable  additions  to  the  flat  Suffolk  scenery; 

he  wanted  nothing  better  or  sweeter  in  life  than  to  lie  here  for 

ever  stretched  at  his  ease  in  the  sun,  and  talk  of  poetry  and  love 

with  Elsie. 

At  the  end  of  an  hour,  however,  he  roused  himself  sturdily. 
Life,  says  the  philosopher,  is  not  all  beer  and  skittles ;  nor  is  it  all 
poetry  and  dalliance  either.    "  Steru  duty  sways  our  lives  against 


I 


r 


WUICU  LADl'f 


43 


onr  will,"  say  the  •'  Echoes  from  Calh'machns."  It's  nil  very  well, 
lit  odd  moments,  to  sport  with  Amaryllis  in  tho  sluido,  or  witli 
tlio  tanjjlcs  of  Ncaira's  hair — for  a  roasoii;iblo  period.  But  if 
Amaryllis  has  no  money  of  her  own,  or  if  Neiora  is  a  penniless 
governess  in  a  country-house,  tho  wise  man  must  sacrifice 
sentiment  at  last  1 1  solid  advantaj^cs;  he  must  quit  Amaryllis 
in  search  of  Phyllis,  or  reject  Neicra  in  favour  of  Vera,  that 
opnlciit  virp;in,  who  has  lands  and  houses,  messuages  and  tene- 
ments, stocks  and  shares,  and  is  a  ward  in  Chancery.  Face  to 
face  with  such  a  sad  necessity,  Hugh  now  found  himself.  He 
was  really  grieved  that  tho  circumstances  of  the  case  compelled 
him  to  tear  himself  unwillingly  away  from  Elsie;  he  was  so 
thoroughly  enjoying  himself  in  his  own  pet  way;  but  duty, 
duty— duty  before  everything !  Tho  slave  of  duty  jumped  up 
with  a  start. 

"My  dear  child,"  he  exclaimed,  glancing  hastily  at  his  watch, 
•'Relf  will  really  never  forgive  me.  I'm  sure  it's  time  for  us  to 
set  to  corners  and  change  partners.  Not,  of  course,  that  I  want 
to  do  it  myself.  For  two  people  who  are  not  engaged,  I  think 
we've  had  a  very  snug  little  time  of  it  here  together,  Elsie.  But 
a  bargain's  a  bargain,  and  Eelf  must  be  inwardly  grinding  his 
teeth  at  me. — Let's  go  and  meet  them." 

Elsie  rose  more  slowly  and  wistfully.  "I'm  never  so  happy 
anywhere,  Hugh,"  she  said  with  a  lingering  cadence,  "as  when 
you're  with  me." 

"And  yet  we  are  vot  engaged,"  Hugh  went  on  in  a  meditative 
murmur — "  we  re  not  engaged.  We're  only  cousins !  For  mere 
cousins,  our  cousinly  solicitude  for  one  another's  welfare  is 
truly  touching.  If  all  families  were  only  as  united  as  ours, 
now  I  interpreters,  of  prophecy  would  not  have  far  to  seek  for 
the  date  of  the  millennium.  Well,  well,  instructress  of  youth, 
we  must  look  out  for  these  other  young  people ;  and  if  I  were 
you,  experience  would  suggest  to  me  the  desirability  of  not 
coming  upon  them  from  behind  too  unexpectedly  or  abruptly. 
A  fellow-feeling  makes  us  wondrous  kind.  Relf  is  young,  and 
the  pretty  pupil  is  by  no  means  unattractive." 

"  I'd  trust  Winifred  as  implicity "  Elsie  began,  and  broke 

off  suddenly. 

•'  As  you'd  trust  yourself,"  Hugh  put  in,  with  a  little  quiet 
irony,  completing  her  sentence.  *'  No  doubt,  no  doubt ;  I  can 
readily  believe  it.  But  even  you  and  I — who  are  staider  and 
older,  and  merely  cousins — wouldn't  have  cared  to  be  disturbed 
too  abruptly  just  now,  you  know,  when  we  were  pulling  solda- 
nellas  to  pieces  in  concert  in  the  hollow  down  yonder.  I  shall 
climb  to  the  top  of  the  big  sandhill  there,  and  from  that  specular 
mount — as  Satan  remarks  in  "  Paradise  Regained  " — I  shall  spy 
from  afar  where  Relf  has  wandered  off  to  with  the  immaculate 


iit 


1        'HI 


. 


i    i 


4- 


4G 


TJiia  MORTAL   COIL. 


ii    i 


Winifi'cil.— All,  thcro  thoy  are,  ovor  yonrler  by  tho  bench,  look- 
ing I'oi"  pobbloa  or  tJonictliiiiK — 1  sui)|)oso  amiier.  Let's  po  ovor 
to  thein,  Elsie,  and  chan^o  purtiiors.  Common  iiolitcncss 
compels  one,  of  course,  to  pay  some  attcntiou  to  one's  host's 
daughter." 

As  thoy  strolled  away  again,  with  a  change  of  partnora,  back 
towards  tho  spot  where  Mrs.  Moysoy  was  somewliat  anxiously 
awaiting  them,  Hugh  and  Winifred  turned  their  talk  casually 
on  Elsie's  manifold  charms  and  excellences.  "  She's  a  sweet, 
isn't  she?"  Winifred  cried  to  her  new  ac(iuaintance  in  enthu- 
Riastic  appreciatiou.  "  Did  you  ever  in  your  life  meet  anybody 
like  her?" 

"No,  never"  Hugh  answered  with  candid  praise.  Candour 
was  always  Hugh's  special  cue.  "She's  a  dear,  good  girl,  and 
I  like  her  immensely.  I'm  proud  of  her  too.  The  only  inherit- 
ance I  ever  received  from  my  family  is  my  cousinship  to  Elsie  ; 
and  I  duly  prize  it  as  my  sole  heirloom  from  fifty  generations 
of  penniless  Massiiigers." 

'•  Then  you're  very  fond  of  her,  Mr.  Massinger?  '* 

"Yes,  very  fond  of  her.  When  a  man's  only  got  one  relative 
in  the  world,  he  naturally  values  tliat  unique  possession  far 
more  than  those  who  have  a  couple  of  dozen  or  so  of  all  sexes 
and  ages,  assorted.  Some  peoi)le  sullcr  from  too  much  family ; 
my  misfortune  is  that,  being  a  naturally  affectionate  man,  I 
Buffer  from  too  little.  It's  tho  old  case  of  the  one  ewe  lamb ; 
Elsie  is  to  me  my  brothers  and  my  sisters,  and  my  cousins  and 
my  aunts,  all  rolled  into  one,  like  the  supe»    it  tho  theatre." 

"And  are  you  and  she "  Winifre.        r;an  timidly.    All 

girls  are  naturally  inquisitive  on  that  imj.     ...ut  question. 

Hugh  broke  her  off  with  a  quick,  little  laugh.  "Oh  dear  no, 
nothing  of  the  sort,"  he  answered  hastily,  in  his  jaunty  way. 
"  We're  not  engaged,  if  that's  what  you  mean.  Miss  Meysey ;  nor 
at  all  likely  to  be.  Our  affection,  though  profound,  is  of  the 
brotherly  and  sisterly  order  only.  It's  much  nicer  so,  of  course. 
When  people  are  engaged,  they're  always  looking  forward  with 
yearning  and  longing  and  other  unpleasant  internal  feelings, 
much  enlarged  upon  in  Miss  Virginia  Gabriel's  songs,  to  a 
delusive  future.  When  they're  simply  fiiends,  or  brothers  and 
sisters,  they  can  enjoy  their  friendship  or  their  fraternity  in  tho 
present  tense,  without  for  ever  gazing  ahead  with  wistful  eyes 
towards  a  distant  and  ever-receding  horizon." 

"  But  why  need  it  recede  ?  "  Winifred  asked  innocently. 

"Why  need  it  recede?  Ah,  there  you  i)ose  me.  Well,  it 
needn't,  of  course,  among  the  rich  and  the  mighty.  If  people 
are  swells,  and  amply  provided  for  by  their  godfathers  and  god- 
mothers at  their  baptism,  or  otherwise,  they  cau  marry  at  once ; 
but  the  poor  and  the  struggling — that's  Elsie  and   me,  you 


WniUH  lADYt  47 

know,  j\IisR  I\r»\v?ry— tho  poor  and  tho  RtrnpRlinc;  got  en,^ac:o.l 
foolishly,  mul  Lopo  and  liopo  for  a  huiiiMu  cottiigo — tlio  iK)oti('iil 
cottage,  all  (Irapixl  with  roses  and  wild  honeysuckle,  and  the 
well-uttired  woudhiuo— and  toil  and  moil  and  labour  exceed- 
inp,ly,  and  find  tlie  cottaf,'o  receding,  receding,  receding  still, 
away  oil'  in  tho  distanco,  while  tlioy  plough  their  way  through 
tlie  hopeless  years,  just  as  tho  horizon  recedes  for  ever  beforo 
joii  when  you  steer  straight  out  for  it  in  a  boat  at  sea.  The 
moral  is — poor  folk  sliould  not  indulge  in  tho  luxury  of  hearts, 
and  should  wrap  themselves  up  severely  in  their  own  interests, 
till  they're  wlioUy  and  utterly  and  irretrievably  selfish." 

"And  are  you  selfish,  I  wonder,  Mr.  Massinger?" 

"  I  try  to  bo,  of  course,  from  a  sense  of  duty ;  though  I'm 
afraid  1  make  a  very  poor  hand  at  it.  I  was  born  with  a  heart, 
and  do  what  I  will,  I  can't  quite  stifle  that  irrepressible  natural 
oigau. — But  I  take  it  ull  out,  I  believe,  in  tho  end,  in  writing 
Vci'ses." 

"  Y<m  sent  Elsie  Fome  verses  this  morning,"  Winifred  broke 
out  in  an  artless  way,  as  if  she  were  merely  stating  a  common 
fact  of  every-duy  experience. 

Hugh  had  some  dilficulty  in  suppressing  a  start,  an^l  in 
recovering  his  composure  so  as  to  answer  unconcernedly  :  "  Oh, 
she  showed  them  to  you,  then,  did  sheV"  (How  thoughtless  of 
him  to  have  posted  those  poor  rhymes  to  Elsio,  when  ho  might 
have  known  beforehand  she  would  confide  them  at  once  to  Misa 
^leysoy's  sympathetic  ear!) 

"No,  she  didn't  shov  thorn  to  me,"  Winifred  replied,  in  the 
same  careless  easy  way  as  before.  "  I  saw  them  drop  out  of  the 
envelope,  that's  all ;  and  Elsio  put  them  away  as  soon  as  she 
saw  they  were  ver.'os  ;  but  I  was  sure  they  were  yours,  because 
1  know  your  handwriting — Elsie's  shown  me  bitu  of  your  letteis 
sometimes." 

"  I  often  send  copies  of  my  little  pieces  to  Elsie  before  I  print 
them,"  Hugh  went  on  casually,  in  his  most  candid  manner.  "  It 
may  be  vain  of  mo,  but  I  like  her  to  see  them.  She's  a  capital 
critic,  Elsie;  women  often  are:  she  sometimes  suggests  to  me 
most  valuable  alterations  and  modilications  in  some  of  my 
verses." 

"  Tell  mo  these  ones,"  Winifred  asked  abruptly,  with  a  little 
blush. 

It  was  a  trying  moment.  What  was  Hugh  to  do?  The 
verses  he  had  actually  sent  to  Elsie  were  all  emotion  and  devo- 
tion, and  hearts  and  darts,  and  fairest  and  thou  wearest,  and 
charms  and  arras;  amorous  and  clamorous  chimed  together  like 
old  friends  in  one  stanza,  and  sorrow  dispelled  itself  to-morrow 
with  its  usual  cheerful  punctuality  in  the  next.  To  recite  them 
lo  Winifred  as  they  stood  would  be  to  retire  at  once  from  his 


li  < 


'a: 


.t! 


i!> 


48 


THIS  MORTAL  COIL. 


i; ';! 


■■•[ffl 


half-projected  siege  of  the  pretty  little  heiress's  heart  and  hand. 
For  that  decisive  step  Hugh  was  not  at  present  entirely  pre- 
pared. He  mustn't  allow  himself  to  be  beaten  by  such  a 
scholar's  mate  as  this.  He  cleared  his  throat,  and  began  boldly 
on  another  piece,  ringing  uut  his  lines  with  a  sonorous  lilt — a 
set  of  silly,  garrulous,  childish  vei;?es  he  had  written  long  since, 
but  never  publisl:ed,  about  some  merry  sta-elvcs  in  an  en- 
chanted submarine  fairy  country. 

A  tiny  fay 

At  the  bottom  lay 

Of  a  purple  bay 

Unruffled, 
On  whose  crj'stal  floor 
'i'he  distant  roar 
From  the  surf-bound  sliotc 

Was  muffled. 

With  his  fairj'  wife 
He  passed  bis  life 
Undimmed  by  strife 

Or  quarrel ; 
And  the  livelong  day 
They  would  merrily  play 
Through  a  labyrinth  guy 

With  coral. 

They  loved  to  dwe^l 
In  a  pearly  shell, 
And  to  deck  their  cell 

V/ith  amber ; 
Or  amid  the  caves 
That  the  riplet  laves 
And  the  beryl  paves 

To  clamber. 

He  went  on  so,  with  his  jigging  versicles,  line  after  line,  as  they 
walked  along  the  firm  white  sand  together,  through  several 
foolish  sing-song  stanzas;  till  at  last,  when  he  was  more  th:in 
half-way  through  the  meaningless  little  piece,  a  sudden  thought 
pulled  him  up  abruptly.  He  had  chosen,  as  he  thought,  the 
most  innocent  and  non-committing  bit  of  utter  trash  in  all  his 
private  poetical  repertory ;  but  now,  as  ho  repeated  it  over  to 
Winifred  with  easy  intonation,  swingir.t^  his  stick  to  ke«.  p  time 
as  he  went,  he  recollected  all  at  once  that  the  last  rhymc3  Sow 
off  at  a  tangent  to  a  very  personal  conclusion— and  what  was 
worse,  were  addressed,  too,  not  to  Elsie,  but  very  obviously  to 
another  lady  1    The  end  was  somewhat  after  this  wise : 

On  a  darting  shrimp 

Onr  quaint  little  inip 

With  bridle  of  gimp 

Would  gambol  5 


WHIOH  LADYf  49 

Or  across  the  back 
Of  a  sea-horse  black 
As  a  gentleman's  hack 
He'd  amble. 

Of  emerald  green 
And  sapphire's  sheen 
He  made  his  4ueen 

A  tiar ; 
And  the  merry  two 
'I  heir  whole  life  through' 
Were  as  happy  as  you 

And  I  are. 

And  then  came  the  seriously  compromising  bit: 

But  if  you  say 
Ycu  think  this  lay 
Of  the  tinv  fay 

Too  silly, 
TiOt  it  have  the  praise 
!My  eye  betrays 
To  your  own  sweet  gazcj 

My  Lily. 

For  a  man  he  trie?. 
And  he  toils  and  sighs 
To  be  very  wise 

And  witty ; 
But  a  dear  little  dame 
Has  enough  of  fame 
If  she  wins  the  name 

Of  pretty. 

Lily!  Lily!  Oh,  that  discomposinpf,  unfortunate,  compro- 
mising Lily !  He  had  met  her  down  in  Warwickshire  two  seasons 
since.  '>'■  a  country-house  where  they  were  both  staying,  and  had 
fall  •  o  /er  head  and  ears  in  love  with  her — then.  Now,  he  only 
wished  with  all  his  heart  and  soul  she  and  her  fays  were  at  the 
bottom  of  the  sea  in  a  body  together.  For  of  course  she  was 
penniless.  If  not,  by  this  time  she  would  no  doubt  have  been 
Mrs.  Massinger. 

Hugh  Massinger  was  a  capital  actor ;  but  even  he  could  hardly 
have  ventured  to  pretend  with  a  grave  face  that  those  Lily  verses 
had  ever  been  addressed  to  Elsie  Challoner.  Everything 
depended  upon  his  presence  of  mind  and  a  bold  resolve.  Ho 
hesitated  for  a  moment  at  the  "  emerald  green  and  sapphire's 
sheen,"  and  seemed  as  though  he  couldr  't  recall  the  next  line. 
After  a  minute  or  two's  pretenued  searching  he  recovered 
it  feebly,  and  then  he  stumbled  again  over  the  end  of  the 
stanza. 

"  It's  no  use,"  he  cried  at  last,  as  if  angry  with  himself.  "  I 
should  only  murder  them  if  I  were  to  go  on  now.   I've  forgotten 


1 


^^)-^^!  ^'.1 


^1:1 


ill 


1' 


i     :  i  I 


50 


THIS  MORTAL   COIL. 


*«.r 


jr 


11' 


tne  rest.    The  words  escape  me.    And  they're  really  not  worth 
your  seriously  listening  to.'* 

"  I  like  them,"  Winifred  said  in  her  simple  way.  **  They're 
so  easy  to  understand  :  so  nelodious  and  meaningless.  I  love 
verse  that  you  don't  have  to  puzzle  over.  I  can't  bear  Browning 
for  that — he's  so  impossible  to  make  anything  sensible  out  of. 
But  I  adore  silly  little  tilings  like  these,  that  go  in  at  one  ear 
and  out  of  the  other,  and  really  sound  as  if  they  meant  some- 
thing.— I  shall  ask  Elsie  to  tell  me  the  end  of  them." 

Here  was  indeed  a  dilemma!  Suppose  she  did,  and  suppose 
Elsie  showed  her  the  real  verses!  At  all  hazards,  ho  must 
extricate  himself  somehow  from  this  impossible  situation. 

"  I  wish  you  wouldn't,"  he  said  gently,  in  his  softest  and  most 
persuasive  voice.  **  Elsie  mightn't  like  you  to  know  I  sent  her 
my  verses — though  there's  nothing  in  it— girls  are  so  sensitive 
sometimes  about  these  matters. — But  I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do, 
if  you'll  kindly  allow  me ;  I'll  write  you  out  the  end  of  them 
when  I  get  home  to  the  inn,  and  bring  them  written  out  in  full, 
a  nice  clear  copy,  the  next  time  I  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing 
you."  ("  I  can  alter  the  end  somehow,"  he  thought  to  himself 
with  a  sudden  inspiration,  "and  dress  them  up  innocently  ono 
way  or  another  with  fresh  rhymes,  so  as  to  have  no  special 
applicability  of  any  sort  to  anybody  or  anything  anywhere  in 
particular.") 

"Thank  you,"  Winifred  repliorl,  with  evident  pleasure.  "I 
should  like  that  ever  so  much  better.  It'll  be  so  nice  to  have 
a  poet's  verses  written  out  for  ouo's  self  in  his  own  hand- 
writing." 

*'  You  do  me  too  much  honour,"  Hrgh  answered,  with  his  mock 
little  bow.  "I  don't  pretend  to  be  a  pjet  at  all;  I'm  only  a 
versifier." 

They  joined  the  old  folks  in  time  by  the  yawl.  The  Squire 
was  getting  anxious  to  go  back  to  his  garden  now — he  foresaw 
rain  in  the  sky  to  west«  ard. 

Hugh  glanced  hastily  at  his  watch  with  a  sigh.  "  I  must  bo 
going  back  too,"  he  cried.  "It's  nearly  five  now;  we  can't  bo 
up  at  the  village  till  six.  Post  goes  out  at  nine,  they  say,  and  I 
have  a  book  to  review  before  post-time.  It  must  positively  rc^-ach 
town  not  later  than  to-morrow  morning.  And  whaL's  worse,  I 
haven't  yet  so  much  as  begun  to  dij)  into  it." 

"  But  you  can  never  read  it,  and  review  it  too,  in  three 
hours!"  Winifred  exclaimed,  agh.ist. 

*'  Precisely  so,"  Hugh  answered  in  his  jaunty  way,  with  a 
stifled  yawn ;  "  and  therefore  I  propose  to  omit  the  reading  as  a 
very  unncc:ssary  and  wasteful  preliminary.  It  often  prejudices 
one  against  a  book  to  know  what's  in  it.  You  approach  a  work 
you  haven't  read  with  a  mind  unbiased  by  preconceived  im- 


WHICH  LADT9 


61 


pressions.  Besides,  this  is  only  a  three-volume  novel ;  they're 
all  alike;  it  doesn't  matter.  You  can  say  the  plot  is  crude  and 
ill-constructed,  the  dialogue  feeble,  the  descriptions  vile,  the 
situations  borrowed,  and  the  characters  all  more  conventional 
puppets.  The  same  review  will  do  equally  well  for  the  whole 
stupid  lot  of  them.  I  usually  follow  Sydney  Smith's  method  in 
that  matter ;  I  cut  a  few  pages  at  random,  here  and  there,  and 
then  smell  the  paper-ktiife." 

"  But  is  that  just  ?  "  Elsie  asked  quietly,  a  slight  shade  coming 
over  her  earnest  face. 

"  My  dear  Mips  Challoner,"  Warren  Relf  put  in  hastily,  "  have 
you  known  Massinger  so  many  years  without  finding  out  that 
he's  always  a  great  deal  better  than  he  himself  pi-etends  to  be  ? 
1  know  him  well  enough  to  feel  quite  confident  he'll  read  every 
word  of  that  novel  through  to-night,  if  he  sits  up  till  four  o'clock 
in  the  morning  to  do  it ;  and  he'll  let  the  London  people  have 
their  review  in  time,  if  he  telegraphs  up  every  blessed  word  of 
it  by  special  wire  to-morrow  morning.  His  wickedness  is  always 
only  his  brag ;  his  goodness  he  hides  carefully  under  his  own 
extrermely  capacious  bushel." 

Hugh  laughed.  "As  you  know  n^e  so  much  better  than  I 
know  myself,  my  dear  boy,"  he  replied  easily,  '*  there's  nothing 
more  to  be  said  about  it.  I'm  glad  to  receive  so  good  a  character 
from  a  connoisseur  in  human  nature.  I  really  never  knew  before 
what  an  amiable  and  estimable  member  of  society  hid  himself 
under  my  rugged  and  unprepossessing  exterior."  And  as  he 
said  it,  he  draw  himself  up,  and  darting  a  laugh  from  the  corner 
of  those  sad  black  eyes,  looked  at  the  moment  the  handsomest 
and  most  utterly.killing  man  in  the  county  of  Suffolk. 

When  Elsie  and  Winifred  went  up  to  their  own  rooms  that 
evening,  the  younger  girl,  slipping  into  Elsie's  bedroom  for  a 
moment,  took  her  friend's  hands  tenderly  in  her  own,  and  look- 
ing long  and  eagerly  into  the  other's  eyes,  said  at  last  in  a  quick 
tone  of  unexpected,  discovery :  "  Elsie,  he's  awfully  nice-looking 
and  awfully  clever,  this  Oxford  cousin  of  yours.  I  like  him 
immensely.'* 

Elsie  brought  back  her  eyes  from  infinity  with  a  sudden  start. 
"I'm  glad  you  do,  dear,"  she  said,  looking  down  at  her  kindly. 
*'  I  wanted  you  to  like  him.  I  should  have  been  dreadfully  dis- 
appointed, in  fact,  if  you  didn't.  I'm  exceedingly  fond  of  Hugh, 
Winnie." 

Winifi-ed  paus-^cd  for  a  second  significantly;  then  she  asked 
point-blank :  "  Elsie,  are  you  engaged  to  him  ?  " 

"  Engaged  to  him !  My  darling,  what  ever  made  you  dream 
of  such  a  thing  ? — Engaged  to  Hugh ! — engaged  to  Hugh 
Massinger ! — Why,  Winnie,  you  know,  lie's  my  own  consin." 

"  But  you  don't  answer  my  question  plainly,"  Winifred  per- 


If;  r. 


iii 


i 


• 

1 

!■     M 

;  i 

j-    ■  ]'> 

I 

!        !; 

;              ,  I 

i 

i    ■    i 

62 


TEI8  MORTAL   COIL. 


"  Are  you  engaged  to  him  or 


sisted  with  girlish  determination, 
are  you  not  V  " 

Elsie,  mindful  of  Hugh's  frequent  declarations,  answered 
boldly  (and  not  quite  untruthfully) :  "  No,  I'm  not,  Winifred." 

The  heiress  of  VVldtestrand  stroked  her  friend's  hair  with  a 
sigh  of  relief.  That  sigh  was  blind.  Girl  though  slio  was,  she 
might  clearly  have  seen  with  a  woman's  instinct  that  Elsie's 
flushed  cheek  and  downcast  eyes  belied  to  the  utmost  her  spoken 
word.  But  she  did  not  see  it.  All  preoccupied  as  she  was  with 
her  own  thoughts  and  her  own  wishes,  she  never  observed  at  all 
those  mute  witnesses  to  Elsie's  love  for  her  handsome  cousin. 
She  was  satisfied  in  her  heart  with  Hugh's  and  Elsie's  double 
verbal  denial.  She  said  to  herself  with  a  thrill  in  her  own  sonl, 
as  a  girl  will  do  in  the  first  full  flush  of  her  earliest  passion  : 
"  Then  I  may  love  him  if  I  like !  I  may  make  him  love  me  I  It 
won't  be  wrong  to  Elsie  for  me  to  love  hiru ! " 


CHAPTER  VII. 

FRIENDS   IN   COUNCIL. 

That  same  night,  as  the  Squire  and  Mrs.  Meypey  sat  by  them- 
selves towards  the  small-hours — after  the  girls  had  unanimously 
evacuated  the  drawing-room— discussing  the  i,ffairs  of  the 
universe  generally,  as  then  and  there  envisnged,  over  a  glass  of 
claret-cup,  the  mother  looked  up  at  last  with  a  sudden  glance 
into  the  father's  face,  and  said  in  a  tone  half-anxious,  half- 
timid  :  "  Tom,  did  it  happen  to  strike  you  this  afternoon  that 
that  handsome  cousin  of  Elsie  Challoner's  seemed  to  take  a 
great  taney  to  our  Winifred  ?  " 

The  Squire  stirred  his  claret-cup  idly  with  his  spoon.  "  I 
snppose  the  fellow  has  eyes  in  his  head,"  he  answered  bluntly. 
"No  man  in  his  senses  could  ever  look  at  our  little  Wiiinie,  I 
should  think,  Emily,  and  not  fall  over  his  ears  in  love  with  her." 

Mrs.  Meysey  waited  a  minute  or  two  more  in  silent  suspense 
before  she  spoke  again ;  then  she  said  once  more,  very  tenta- 
tively :  **  He  seems  a  tolerably  nice  young  man,  I  think,  Tom." 

"Oh,  he's  well  enough,  I  dare  say,"  the  Squire  admitted 
grudgingly. 

**  A  barrister,  he  says.  That's  a  very  good  profession,"  Mrs. 
Meysey  went  on,  still  feeling  her  way  by  gradual  stages. 

"  Never  heard  so  in  my  life  before,"  the  Squire  grunted  out. 
"There  are  barristers  and  barristers.  He  gets  no  briefs. 
Lives  on  literature,  by  what  he  tells  me :  next  door  to  living 
upon  your  wits,  I  call  it." 


I  1  Ml 


FB TENDS  IN  COUNCIL. 


R3 


•; 


**  But  I  mean,  it's  a  gentleman's  profession,  anyhow,  Tom,  tho 
lar." 

"  Oh,  the  man's  a  gentleman,  of  conrse,  if  it  comes  to  that— a 
perfect  gentleman ;  and  an  Oxford  man,  and  a  person  of  culture, 
and  all  that  sort  of  thing — I  don't  deny  it.  He's  a  very  pre- 
sentable fellow,  too,  in  his  own  way ;  and  most  intelligent : 
understands  the  riparian  proprietors'  question  as  easy  as  any- 
thing.— You  can  ask  him  to  dinner  wiieuever  you  choose,  if 
that's  what  you're  driving  at." 

Mrs.  Meysey  called  anotlier  halt  for  a  few  seconds  before  she 
reopened  lire,  still  more  timidly  than  ever.  "Tom,  do  you 
know  I  rather  fancy  he  really  likes  our  Winifred  ?"  she  mur- 
mured, gasping. 

"  Of  course  he  likes  our  Winifred,"  the  Squire  repeated,  with 
profound  conviction  in  every  tone  of  his  voice.  "  I  should  like 
to  know  who  on  earth  there  is  that  doesn't  like  our  Winifred  ! 
Nothing  new  in  that.  I  could  have  told  you  so  myself.  Go 
ahead  with  it,  then. — What  next,  now,  Emily  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  think,  Tom,  if  I'm  not  mistaken,  Winifred  seemed 
rather  inclined  to  take  a  fancy  to  him  too,  somehow." 

Thomas  Wyville  Meysey  laid  down  his  glass  incredulously 
on  the  small  side-table.  He  didn't  explode,  but  he  hung  fire  for 
a  moment.  "  You  women  are  always  fancying  things,"  he  said 
at  last,  with  a  slight  frown.  "You  think  you're  so  precious 
quick,  you  do,  at  reading  other  people's  faces.  I  don't  deny  you 
often  succeed  in  reading  them  right.  You  read  mine  precious 
often,  I  know,  when  I  don't  want  you  to— that  I  can  swear  to. 
But  sometimes,  Emily,  you  know  you  read  what  isn't  in  them. 
That's  the  way  with  all  decipherers  of  hieroglyphics.  They  seo 
a  great  deal  more  in  things  than  ever  was  put  there.  You 
remember  that  time  when  I  met  old  Hillier  down  by  the  copse 
yonder " 

"Yes,  yes,  I  remember,"  Mrs.  Meysey  admitted, checking  him 
at  the  outset  with  an  astute  concession.  She  had  cause  to 
remember  the  facts,  indeed,  for  the  Squire  reminded  her  of  that 
one  obvious  and  palpable  mistake  about  the  young  fox-cubs  at 
least  three  times  a  week,  the  year  round,  on  an  average.  "  I 
was  wrong  that  time ;  I  know  I  was,  of  course.  You  weren't  in 
the  least  annoyed  with  Mr.  Hillier.  But  I  think — I  don't  say 
I'm  sure,  observe,  dear — but  I  think  Winifred's  likely  to  take  a 
fancy  in  time  to  this  young  Mr.  Massinger.  Now,  the  question 
is,  if  she  does  take  a  fancy  to  him— a  serious  fancy — and  ho  to 
her — what  are  you  and  I  to  do  about  it  V  " 

As  she  spoke,  Mrs.  Meysey  looked  hard  at  the  lamp,  and  then 
at  her  husband,  wondering  with  what  sort  of  grace  he  would 
receive  this  very  revolutionary  and  upsetting  suggestion.  For 
herself— though  mothers  are  hard  to  please— it  may  us  well  be 


h 


■It 

'IS? 


U 


II  "II 


il  if  i 


54 


THIS  MORTAL  COIL. 


i' 


admitted  off-hand,  she  had  fallGn  a  ready  victim  at  once  to 
Hugh  Massinger's  charms  and  brilliancy  and  blandishments. 
Such  a  nice  young  man,  so  handsome  and  gentlemanly,  so  adroit 
in  his  talk,  so  admirable  in  his  principles,  and  though  far  from 
rich,  yet,  in  his  way,  distinguished!  A  better  young  man, 
darling  Wii  ifred  was  hardly  likely  to  meet  with.  But  what 
would  dear  Tom  think  about  him  ?  she  wondered.  Dear  Tom 
had  such  very  expansive  not  to  say  Utopian  ideas  for  Winifred 
— thought  nobody  but  a  Duke  or  a  Prince  of  the  blood  half 
good  enough  for  her:  though,  to  be  sure,  experience  would 
seem  to  suggest  that  Dukes  and  Princes,  after  all,  are  only 
human,  and  not  originally  very  much  bettor  than  other  people. 
Whatever  superior  moral  excellence  wo  usually  detect  in  the 
finished  product  may  no  doubt  be  safely  set  down  in  ultimate 
analysis  to  the  exceptional  pains  bestowed  by  society  upon  their 
ethical  education. 

The  Squire  looked  into  his  claret- cup  profoundly  for  a  few- 
seconds  before  answering,  as  if  he  expected  to  find  it  a  perfect 
Dr.  Dee's  divining  crystal,  big  with  hints  as  to  his  daughter's 
future;  and  then  he  burst  out  abruptly  with  a  grunt:  "I 
suppose  we  must  leave  the  answering  of  that  question  entirely 
to  Winnie." 

Mrs.  Meys:ey  did  not  dare  to  let  her  internal  sigh  of  relief 
escape  her  i;hroat;  that  would  have  been  too  compromising, 
and  would  have  alarmed  dear  Tom.  bo  she  stifled  it  quietly. 
Then  dear  Tom  was  not  wholly  averse,  after  all,  to  this  young 
Mr.  Massinger.  He,  too,  had  fallen  a  victim  to  the  poet's  wiles. 
That  was  well;  for  Mrs.  Meysey,  with  a  mother's  eye,  had  read 
Winifred's  heart  through  and  through.  But  we  must  not  seem 
to  give  in  too  soon.  A  show  of  resistance  runs  in  the  grain 
with  women.  "He's  got  no  money,"  she  murmured  sug- 
gestively. 

The  Squire  flared  tip.  "Money!"  he  cried,  with  infinite 
contempt,  "money!  money!  Who  the  dickens  says  anything 
to  me  about  money  ?  I  believe  that's  all  on  earth  you  women 
think  about.— Money  indeed !  Much  I  care  about  money,  Emily. 
I  dare  say  the  young  fellow  hasn't  got  money.  What  then  ? 
Who  cares  for  that?  He's  got  money's  worth.  He's  got 
brains ;  he's  got  principles ;  he's  got  the  will  to  work  and  to  get 
on.  He'll  be  a  judge  in  time,  I  don't  doubt.  If  a  man  like  that 
were  to  marry  our  Winifred,  with  the  aid  we  could  give  him 
and  the  friends  we  could  find  him,  he  ought  to  rise  by  quick 
stages  to  be— anything  you  like— Lord  Chancellor,  or  Post- 
master-General, or  Archbishop  of  Canterbury,  for  the  matter  of 
that,  if  your  tastes  happen  to  run  in  that,  direction." 

"  He  hasn't  done  much  at  the  bar  yet,"  Mrs.  Meysey  continued, 
playing  her  fish  dexterously  before  landing  it. 


FRIENDS  IN  COUNCIL. 


65 


**  Ilasn't  done  much !  Of  course  he  hasn't  done  much !  How 
the  dickens  could  he  ?  Can  a  man  make  briefs  for  himself,  do 
you  suppose?  He's  given  himself  up,  he  tells  me,  to  earning  a 
livelihood  by  writing  for  the  papers.  Penny-a-lining;  writing 
for  the  papers.  He  had  to  do  it.  It's  a  pity,  upon  my  word,  a 
clever  young  follow  like  that — he  understands  the  riparian  pro- 
prietors' question  down  to  the  very  ground^should|be  compelled 
to  turn  aside  from  his  proper  work  at  the  bar  to  serve  tables,  so 
to  speak — to  gain  his  daily  bread  by  penny-a-lining.   If  Winifred 

were  to  take  a  fancy  to  a  young  man  like  that,  now '*    The 

Squire  paused,  and  eyed  the  light  through  his  glass  reflectively. 

*'  He's  very  presentable,"  Mrs.  Meysey  went  on,  rearranging 
her  workbox,  and  still  angling  cleverly  for  dear  Tom's  indigna- 
tion. 

"  He's  a  man  any  woman  might  be  perfectly  proud  of,"  the 
Squire  retorted  in  a  thunderous  voice  with  firm  conviction. 

Mrs.  Mcysey  followed  up  her  advantage  persistently  for  twenty 
minutes,  insinuating  every  possible  hint  against  Hugh,  and 
leading  the  Squire  deeper  and  deeper  into  a  hopeless  slough  of 
unqualified  commendation.  At  the  end  of  that  time  she  said 
quietly :  *'  Then  I  understand,  Tom,  that  if  Winifred  and  this 
young  Massinger  take  a  fancy  to  one  another,  you  don't  put  an 
absolute  veto  on  the  idea  of  their  getting  engaged,  do  you?" 

"I  only  want  Winnie  to  choose  for  herself,"  the  Squire 
answered  with  prompt  decision.  "Not  that  I  suppose  for  a 
moment  there's  anything  in  this  young  fellow's  talking  a  bit  to 
her.  Men  will  flirt,  and  girls  ivill  let  'em.  Getting  engaged, 
indeed!  You  count  your  chickens  before  the  eggs  are  laid.  A 
man  can't  look  at  a  girl  nowadays,  but  you  women  must  take  it 
into  your  precious  heads  at  once  he  wants  to  go  straight  off  to 
church  and  marry  her.  However,  for  my  part,  I'na  not  going  to 
interfere  in  the  matter  one  way  or  the  other.  I'd  rather  she'd 
marry  the  man  she  loves,  and  the  man  who  loves  her,  whenever 
he  turns  up,  than  marry  fifty  thousand  pounds  and  the  best 
estate  in  all  Suffolk." 

Mrs.  Moysey  had  carried  her  point  with  honours.  "  Perhaps 
you're  right,  dear,"  she  said  diplomatically,  as  who  should  yield 
to  superior  wisdom.     It  was  her  policy  not  to  appear  too  eager. 

*'  Perhaps,  I'm  right ! "  the  Squire  echoed,  half  in  complacency 
and  half  in  anger.  "  Of  course  I'm  right.  I  know  I'm  right, 
Emily.  Why,  l  was  reading  in  a  book  the  other  day  a  most 
splendid  appeal  from  some  philosophic  writer  or  other  about 
making  fewer  marriages  in  future  to  please  Mamma,  and  more 
to  suit  the  tastes  of  the  parties  concerned,  and  subserve  the 
good  of  coming  generations.  1  think  it  was  an  article  in  one  of 
the  magazines.  It's  the  right  way,  I'm  sure  of  that:  and  in 
Winitred's  case  I  mean  to  stick  to  it." 


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THIS  MORTAL  COIL. 


So,  from  that  day  forth,  if  it  was  Hui;h  Massinger's  intention 
or  desire  to  prosecute  his  projected  military  operations  against 
Winifred  Meysey's  hand  and  heart,  he  found  at  least  a 
benevolent  neutral  in  the  old  Squire,  and  a  secret,  silent,  but 
none  the  loss  powerful  domestic  ally  in  Mrs.  Meysey.  it  is  not 
often  that  a  penniless  suitor  thus  enlists  the  sympathies  of  the 
parental  authorities,  who  ought  by  precedent  to  form  the 
central  portion  of  the  defensive  forces,  on  his  own  side  in  sucli 
an  aggressive  enterprise.  But  with  Hugh  Massinger,  nobody 
ever  even  noticed  it  as  a  singular  exception.  He  was  so  clever, 
so  handsome,  so  full  of  promise,  so  courteous  and  courtly  in  his 
demeanour  to  young  and  old,  so  rich  in  future  hopes  and 
ambitious,  that  not  the  Squire  alone,  but  everybody  else  who 
came  in  contact  with  his  easy  smile,  accepted  him  beforehand  as 
almost  alrdhdy  a  Lord  Chancellor,  or  a  Poet  Laureate,  or  an 
Archbishop  of  Canterbury,  according  as  he  might  choose  to 
direct  his  talents  into  this  channel  or  that;  and  failed  to  be 
surprised  that  the  Meysoys  or  anybody  else  on  earth  should 
accept  him  with  effusion  as  a  favoured  postulant  for  the  hand  of 
their  only  daughter  and  heiress.  There  are  a  few  such  universal 
favourites  here  and  there  in  the  world :  whenever  you  meet  one, 
smile  with  the  rest,  but  remember  that  his  recipe  is  a  simple 
onu — Humbug. 


■i 


U-  ' 


fit 


CHAPTER    VIIL 


THE  ROADS   DIVIDE. 


HxTGH  stopped  for  two  months  or  more  at  "V^Tiitestrand,  and 
during  all  that  time  he  saw  much  both  of  Elsie  and  of  Winifred. 
The  Meyseys  introduced  him  with  cordial  pleasure  to  all  the 
melancholy  gaieties  of  the  sleepy  little  peninsula.  He  duly 
attended  with  them  the  somnolent  garden-parties  on  the  smooth 
lawns  of  neighbouring  Squires :  the  monotonous  picnics  up  the 
tidal  stream  of  the  meandering  Char;  the  heavy  dinners  at 
every  local  rector's  and  vicar's  and  resident  baronets ;  with  all 
the  other  dead-alive  entertainments  of  the  dulh^st  and  most 
etick-in-the-mud  corner  of  all  England.  The  London  poet 
enlivened  them  all,  however,  with  his  never-failing  flow  of 
exotic  humour,  and  his  slow,  drawled-out  readiness  of  Pall-Mali 
repartee.  It  was  a  comfort  to  him,  indeed,  to  get  among  these 
unspoiled  and  unsophisticated  children  of  nature;  he  could 
palm  off  upon  them  as  original  the  last  good  thing  of  that 
fellow  Hatherley's  from  the  smoking-room  of  the  Clieyne  Row 
Club,  or  tiro  back  upon  them,  undetected,  dim  reminiscences  of 


H: 


THE  ROADS  DIVIDE. 


5V 


pungent  chaff  overheard  in  brilliant  West-end  drawing-rooms. 
And  then,  there  were  Elsie  and  Winifred  to  amuse  him;  and 
Hugh,  luxurious,  easy-going,  epicurean  philosoplier  that  he  was, 
took  no  trouble  to  decide  in  his  own  mind  even  what  might  be 
his  ultimate  intentions  towards  either  fair  lady,  satisfied  only, 
as  he  phrased  it  to  his  inner  self,  to  take  the  goods  the  gods 
provided  him  for  the  passing  moment,  and  to  keep  them  both 
well  in  hand  together.  "iJow  happy  could  I  bo  with  either,'* 
sings  Captain  Macheath  in  the  oft-quoted  couplet,  "  were  t'other 
dear  charmer  away."  Hugh  took  a  still  more  lenient  view  of 
his  personal  responsibilities  than  the  happy-go-lucky  knight  of 
the  highway ;  ho  was  quite  content  to  be  blest,  while  he  could, 
with  both  at  once,  asking  no  questions,  for  conscience'  sake,  of 
his  own  final  disposition,  marital  or  otherwise,  towards  one  or 
the  other,  but  leaving  the  problem  of  his  matrimonial  arrange- 
ments for  fate,  or  chance,  to  settle  in  its  own  good  fashion. 

It  was  just  a  week  after  his  arrival  at  Whitestrand  that  he 
went  up  one  morning  early  to  the  Hall.  Elsie  and  Winifred 
were  seated  together  on  a  rug  under  the  big  tree,  engaged  iu 
reading  one  novel  between  them. 

"  You  must  wish  Winifred  many  happy  returns  of  the  day," 
Elsie  called  out  gaily,  looking  up  from  her  book  as  Hugh 
approached  them.  '-It's  her  birthday,  Hugh;  and  just  see 
what  a  lovely  delightful  present  Mr.  Mcysey's  given  her !" 

Winifred  held  out  the  present  at  arm's  length  for  his  admira- 
tion. It  was  a  pretty  little  watch,  in  gold  and  enamel,  with  her 
initials  engraved  on  the  back  on  a  broad  shield.  "  It's  just  a 
beauty  !  I  should  love  one  like  it  myself! "  Elsie  cried  enthu- 
siastically. "Did.you  ever  see  such  a  dear  little  thing?  It's 
keyless  too,  and  so  exquisitely  finished.  It  really  makes  me 
feel  quite  ashamed  of  my  own  poor  old  battered  silver  one." 

Hugh  took  the  watch  and  examined  it  carefully.  He  noted 
the  maker's  name  upon  the  dial,  and,  opening  the  back,  made 
a  rapid  mental  memorandum  of  the  number.  A  sudden  thought 
had  flashed  across  him  at  the  moment.  He  waited  only  a  few 
minutes  at  the  Hall,  and  then  asked  the  two  girls  if  they  could 
walk  down  into  the  village  with  him.  He  had  a  telegram  to 
send  off,  he  said,  which  he  had  only  just  that  moment  re- 
membered. Would  they  mind  stepping  over  with  him  as  far  as 
the  post-oflSce  ? 

They  strolled  together  into  the  sleepy  High  Street.  At  the 
office,  Hugh  wrote  and  sent  off  his  telegram.  It  was  addressed 
to  a  well-known  firm  of  watchmakers  in  Ludgate  Hill,  "  Could 
you  send  me  by  to-morrow  evening's  post,  to  address  as  below, 
a  lady's  gold  and  enamel  watch,  with  initials  *  E.  C,  from  H.  M,* 
engraved  on  shield  on  back,  but  in  every  other  respect  precisely 
feimilai"  to  No.  2179  just  supplied  to  Mr.  Meysey,  of  Whitestrand 


,  I 


I- 


:•     ■■^il 


r 


\    \ 


m 


68 


THIS  MORTAL   COIL. 


Hall  ?  If  80,  f  elcgraph  bade  cash-price  at  once,  and  cheque  for 
amount  shall  lo  f-ent  iniincdiiitcly.  R('i)Iy  paid. — UugU  Mus- 
Bingor,  Fisherman's  licst,  Wliitcstrand,  Siiii'olk." 

Lel'ore  lunch-time  the  rcp'y  had  duly  arrived  :  "  "Watch  shall 
be  seut  on  receipt  of  cheque.  Price  twenty-live  guineas."  So 
far,  good.  It  was  a  fair  amount  for  a  journeyman  journalist  to 
])ay  for  a  present;  but,  as  Hugh  shrewdly  reflected,  it  would 
kill  two  birds  with  one  stone.  l)ay  after  to-morrow  was  Elsie's 
birthday.  The  watch  would  give  Elsie  pleasure ;  and  Hugh,  to 
do  him  justice,  thoroughly  loved  giving  pleasure  to  anybody, 
especially  a  pretty  girl,  and  above  all  Elsie,  lint  it  could  also 
do  him  no  hurra  in  the  Meyt-eys'  eyes  to  see  that,  journeymau 
journalist  as  he  was,  he  was  earning  enough  to  afford  to  throw 
away  twenty-five  guineas  on  a  mere  present  to  a  governess-cousin. 
There  is  a  time  for  economy,  and  there  is  a  time  for  lavisliness. 
The  present  moment  clearly  cnme  under  the  latter  category. 

On  the  second  morning,  true  to  promise,  the  watch  arrived  by 
the  early  post;  and  Hugh  took  it  up  with  pride  to  the  Hull,  to 
bestow  it  in  a  casual  way  upon  poor  breathless  and  affectionate 
Elsie,  ^e  took  it  up  for  a  set  purpose.  He  would  show  the^e 
purse-proud  landed  aristocrats  that  his  cousin  could  ^^port  as 
good  a  watch  any  day  as  their  own  daughter.  The  Massingers 
themselves  had  been  landed  aristocrats— not  presumably  purse- 
proud — in  their  own  day  in  dear  old  Devonshire;  but  the 
estates  had  disappeared  in  houses  and  port  and  riotous  living 
two  generations  since;  and  Hugh  was  now  proving  in  his  own 
person  the  truth  of  the  naif  old  English  adage — "  When  land  is 
gone  and  money  spent,  then  laming  is  most  excellent."  Jour- 
nalism is  a  poor  sort  of  trade  in  its  way ;  but  at  any  rate  an  able 
man  can  earn  his  bread  and  salt  at  it  somehow,  Hugh  didn't 
grudge  those  twenty-live  guineas ;  he  regarded  them,  as  he 
r''garded  his  poems,  in  the  light  of  a  valuable  long  investment. 
They  were  a  sort  of  indirect  double  bid  for  the  senior  Meysoys' 
respect,  and  for  Winifred's  fervent  admiration.  "When  a  man  is 
paying  attentions  to  a  pretty  girl,  there's  nothing  on  earth 
he  det^ires  so  much  as  to  a})i)car  in  her  eyes  lavijihly  generous. 
A  less  abstruse  phik)sopher,  however,  might  perhaps  have 
bestowed  his  generosity  direct  upon  Winifred  in  propria 
persona:  Hugh,  with  his  subtler  calculation  of  long  odds  and 
remote  chances,  dcemeci  it  wiser  to  display  it  in  the  first 
instance  obliquely  upon  Elsie.  This  was  an  acute  little  piece 
of  psychological  byplay.  A  man  who  can  malce  a  present  like 
that  to  a  poor  cousin,  with  whom  he  stands  upon  a  purely 
cousinly  footing,  must  be,  after  all,  not  only  generous,  but  a 
ripping  good  fellow  into  the  bargain.  How  would  he  not 
comport  himself  under  similar  circumstances  to  the  maiden  of 
his  choice,  and  to  the  wife  of  his  bosom  V 


TUB  BOADS  DIVIDE. 


59 


Els'o  took  the  watch,  when  Hugh  profliiccd  it,  with  ft  little 
cry  of  delight  and  surprise;  then,  looking  at  tho  initials  ko 
hastily  engraved  in  neat  Lombardio  letters  on  tho  buck,  the 
tears  rose  to  her  eyes  irrepressibly  as  she  paid,  with  a  gciitlo 
pressure  of  his  hand  in  hers :  '•  I  know  now,  Hugh,  what  that 
telegram  was  about  the  other  morning.  How  very,  very  kind 
and  good  of  you  to  think  of  it.  But  1  almost  wish  you  hadn't 
jtiiven  it  to  me.  I  sliall  never  forgive  myself  for  having  said 
lefore  you  I  should  like  one  tlio  same  sort  as  Winifred's.  I'm 
quite  ashamed  of  your  having  thought  I  meant  to  hint  at  it.'* 

"  Not  at  all,"  Hugh  answered,  with  just  tho  faintest  possible 
return  of  her  gentle  pressure.  "  I  was  twisting  it  over  in  my 
own  mind  what  on  earth  I  could  ever  find  to  give  you.  I 
thought  lirst  of  a  copy  of  my  last  little  volume;  but  then  that's 
nothing— I'm  only  too  sensible  myself  of  its  small  worth.  A 
jjook  from  an  author  is  like  spoiled  peaches  from  a  market- 
pardener:  he  gives  them  away  only  when  he  has  a  glut  of 
tliem.  So,  when  you  said  you'd  like  a  watch  of  the  same  sort  as 
Miss  Meyscy's,  it  seemed  to  mo  a  perfect  interposition  of  chance 
on  my  behalf.  I  knew  what  to  get,  and  I  got  it  at  once.  I'm 
only  glad  those  London  watchmaker  fellows,  whose  respected 
name  I've  quite  forgotten,  had  time  to  engrave  your  initials 
on  it." 

"  But,  Hugh,  it  must  have  cost  you  such  a  mint  of  money." 

Hugh  waved  a  deprecatory  hand  with  airy  n;agnifieencc  over 
the  broad  shrubbery.  "  A  mere  trifle,"  he  said,  as  who  could 
command  thousands.  "It  came  just  to  the  exact  sum  the 
Contemporary  paid  me  ft)r  tliat  last  article  of  mine  on  '  The 
Future  of  Marringe.' "  (Which  was  quite  true,  tho  article  in 
question  having  run  to  precisely  tweiity-tive  pages,  at  the  usual 
honorarium  of  a  guinea  a  page.)  "  It  took  me  a  few  hours  only 
to  dash  it  off."  (Which  was  f-carcely  so  accurate,  it  not  being 
usual  for  even  the  most  abandoned  or  piactised  of  journalists  to 
"dash  off"  articles  for  a  leading  review;  and  the  mere  physical 
task  of  writing  twenty-five  pages  of  solid  letteriu'ess  being 
considerably  greater  than  most  men,  however  rapid  their  pens, 
could  venture  to  undertake  in  a  few  hours.) 

Winifred  looked  up  at  him  with  a  timid  glance.  "It's  a 
lovely  watch,"  she  said,  taking  it  over  with  an  admiring  look 
from  Elsie:  "  and  tho  inscription  makes  it  ever  so  much  nicer. 
One  would  prize  it,  of  course,  for  that  alone.  But  if  I'd  been 
Elsie,  rd  a  thousand  times  rather  have  had  a  volume  of  poems, 
with  the  author's  autograph  dedication,  than  all  the  watches  iu 
all  England." 

"  Would  you  ? "  Hugh  answered,  with  an  amused  smile. 
"  You  rate  the  autograplis  of  a  living  versifier  immensely  above 
their  market  value.    E\en  Tennyson's  may  be  bought  at  a  shop 


I! 


!/i 


60 


THIS  MORTAL  COIL. 


Ill 


in  tho  Strniifl,  you  know,  for'a  few  Rliillinga.  I  feel  tlils  indeed 
fame.  I  shall  l>tgin  to  prow  conceited  soon  at  this  rate. — And 
by  tho  way,  Elsie,  I've  brought  you  a  little  bit  of  verse  too. 
Your  Laureate  has  not  forgotten  or  neglected  his  customary 
duty.  1  shall  expect  a  tmtt  of  Rack  in  return  for  these :  or  may 
I  venture  to  take  it  out  instead  in  uectar  ?  "  They  stood  all  three 
behind  a  group  of  syringa  bushes.  Ho  tonched  her  lips  with 
his  own  lightly  as  he  spoke.  "  Many  happy  returns  of  the  day 
—as  a  cousin,"  he  added,  laughing.— "  And  now,  what's  your 
programme  for  the  day,  Elsie  V  " 

"  We  want  you  to  row  us  up  the  river  to  Snade,  if  it's  not  too 
hot,  Hugh/'  his  pretty  cousin  responded,  all  blushes. 

"Tuus,  0  Eegina,  quid  optes,  Explorare  labor;  mihi  jussa 
capessere  fas  est,"  Hugh  quoted  merrily.  "  That's  tV'O  best  of 
talking  to  a  Girton  girl,  you  see.  You  can  fire  off  your  most 
epigrammatic  Latin  quotation  at  her,  as  it  rises  to  your  lips, 
and  she  understands  it.  How  delightful  that  is,  now.  As  a 
rule,  my  Latin  quotations,  which  are  frequent  and  free,  as 
Truthful  James  says,  besides  being  neat  and  appropriate,  like 
alter-dinner  speeches,  fall  quite  flat  upon  the  stony  ground  of 
the  feminine  intelligence — which  last  remark,  I  flatter  mystlf, 
in  the  mat  ter  of  mixed  metaphor,  would  do  credit  to  Sir  Boyle 
Koclie  in  his  wildest  flight  of  Hibernian  eloquence.  I  made  a 
lovely  Latin  pun  at  a  picnic  once.  We  had  some  chicken  and 
liain  sausage— a  great  red  German  sausage  of  the  polony  order, 
in  a  sort  of  huge  boiled-lobster-coloured  skin ;  and  towards  the 
end  of  lunch,  somebody  asked  me  for  another  slice  of  it. 
'There  isn't  any,'  Baid  L  'It's  all  gone.  Finis  Poloiiiai!' 
Nobody  laughed.  They  didn't  know  that  'Finis  Polonite* 
M^ere  the  last  words  uttered  by  o,  distu)t,Miislied  patriot  and 
soldier,  'when  Freed<~"  j  shrieked  as  Kosciu.sko  fell.'  That 
comes  of  firing  oL"  your  remarks,  you  see,  quite  above  the  head 
of  your  -espected  audience." 

"  But  what  does  that  niea  '  that  you  just  said  this  minute  to 
Elsie  ?"  "Winifred  asked  doulitfuUy. 

"  What!  A  lady  in  these  latter  days  who  doesn't  talk  Latin ! " 
Hugh  cried,  with  pretended  rapture.  "  Th.is  is  too  delicious  ! 
I  hardly  expected  such  good  fortune.  I  shall  have  the  well- 
known  joy,  then,  of  explaining  my  own  feeble  little  joke,  after 
all,  and  grimly  translating  my  own  poor  quotation.  It  means, 
'  Thy  task  it  is,  0  Queen,  to  state  thy  will :  Mine,  thy  behests 
to  serve  for  good  or  ill.*  Eough  translation,  not  necessarily 
intended  for  publication,  but  given  mereiy  as  a  guarantee  of 
good  faith,  as  the  new.s])apers  put  it.  iEolus  makes  the  original 
remark  to  Juno  in  the  tirst '  JEneid,'  when  lie's  y  st  about  to  raise 
the  wind — literally,  not  figuratively- -on  her  behalf,  against  the 
unfortunate  Tiojans.    He  was  then  occui)yiiJg  the  same  post  as 


ai'^^Sra 


THE  ROADS  DIVIDE. 


CI 


clork  of  tlin  woather,  tliiil  is  now  filled  jointly  l»y  tlin  corrospon- 
dtjiit  of  tlio  Ni'ir  York  J/crn/d  and  Mi*.  Jiobt-rt  Scott  of  tlio 
Moteor()Ioj;'i''iil  Otlii-o.  I  hopo  tluiy'll  sond  ris  no  squalls  to-diiy, 
if  you  and  Mrs.  IMcysoy  arc  froin^'  up  tlio  river  with  us." 

On  their  way  to  tiio  boat,  Iluj;li  Htoppod  a  inoiucnt  at  tho  inn 
to  write  hastily  anotlior  tiilc^iani.  It  was  to  lii.s  London  i)nl)- 
lishcr:  "  Pleaso  kindly  send  a  ropy  of  'Echoes  from  Calli- 
machus,'  by  (irst  ])ost  to  my  address  us  u'nder."  And  in  live 
minutes  more,  tho  telegram  dospatchcMl,  they  were  all  rowing 
up  stream  in  a  merry  jiarty  toward  Hnado  meadows.  Ilugii's 
plan  of  campaign  was  now  tinally  decided.  He  had  nothing  to 
do  but  to  carry  out  in  detail  his  siege  operations. 

In  tho  meadows  ho  had  tea  minutes  or  so  alone  with  Wini- 
fred. "  Why,  Mr.  Massingor,''  she  said,  with  a  sur])rised  look, 
"was  it  you,  then,  who  wrote  that  lovely  article,  in  the  Cu7i- 
temporari/,  on  '  Tlic  Future  of  Marriage,'  we've  all  been  reading?" 

"I'm  glad  you  likedit,"Hughanswered,  with  evident  pleasure; 
"and  I  suppose  it's  no  use  now  trying  any  longer  to  conceal  the 
fact  that  I  was  indeed  tlio  culprit." 

"But  there's  another  name  to  it,"  Winifred  murmured  in 
reply.  "And  Mamma  thought  it  must  be  Mr.  Stone,  the 
novelist." 

"Habitual  criminals  are  often  wrongly  suspected,"  Hugh 
answered,  with  a  languid  laugh.  "I  didn't  put  my  own  name 
to  it,  however,  because  I  was  afraid  it  was  a  trifle  sentimental, 
and  I  hate  sentiment.  Indeed,  to  say  tho  truth — it  was  a  cruel 
trick,  perhaps,  but  I  imitated  many  of  Stone's  little  mannerisms, 
because  I  wanted  peo)>le  to  think  it  was  really  Stone  himself 
who  wrote  it.  But.  for  all  that,  I  believe  it  all — every  word  of 
it,  I  assure  you,  Miss  Meysey." 

"It  was  a  lovely  article,"  Winifred  cried,  enthusiastically. 
"  Papa  read  it,  and  was  quite  enchanted  with  it.  He  said  it 
was  so  sensible— just  what  he's  always  thought  about  marriage 
himself,  though  ho  never  could  get  anybody  else  to  agree  with 
him.  And  I  liked  it  too,  if  you  won't  think  it  dreadfully  pre- 
sumptuous of  a  girl  to  say  so.  I  thought  it  took  such  a  grand, 
beautiful,  ethereal  point  of  view,  all  up  in  the  clouds,  you 
know,  with  no  horrid  earthy  materialism  or  nonsense  of  any 
sort  to  clog  and  spoil  it.  I  think  it  was  splendid,  all  that  you 
said  about  its  being  treason  to  the  rac?  to  take  account  of 
wealth  or  position,  or  prospects  or  connections,  or  any  other 
worldly  consideration,  in  choosing  a  husliand  or  wife  for  one's 
self — and  that  one  ought  rather  to  be  guided  by  instinct  alone, 
because  instinct — or  love,  as  we  call  it — was  the  voice  of  nature 
speaking  within  us. — Papa  said  that  was  beautifully  put.  And 
1  thought  it  was  really  true  as  well.  I  thought  it  was  just 
what  a  great  prophet  would  have  said  if  he  were  alive  to  say 

5 


«|t 


.■1 

1 

■  h 

:  in 

J 

J 

62 


THIS  MORTAL  COIL. 


Bil  i!^ 


it ;  and  that  the  man  who  wrote  it "  Slie  paused,  breath- 
less, partly  because  she  was  quite  abashed  by  this  time  at  her 
own  temerity,  and  partly  because  Hutrh  Massinger,  wicked 
man!  was  actually  smiling  a  covert  smile  through  the  corners 
of  his  mouth  at  her  youthful  enthusiasm. 

The  pause  sobered  him.  "  Miss  Meysey,"  he  broke  in,  with 
unwonted  earnestness,  and  with  a  certain  strange  tinge  of  sub- 
dued melancholy  in  his  tremulous  voice,  "I  didn't  mean  to 
laugh  at  you.  I  really  believe  it.  I  believe  in  my  heart 
every  single  word  of  what  I  said  there.  I  believe  a  man—or 
a  woman  either — ought  to  choose  in  marriage  just  the  one  other 
special  person  towards  whom  their  own  hearts  inevitably  lead 
them.  I  believe  it  all — I  believe  it  without  reserve.  Money 
or  rank,  or  connection  or  position,  should  be  counted  as  nothing. 
We  should  go  simply  where  nature  leads  u<;  and  nature  will 
never  lead  us  astray.  For  nature  is  merely  another  name  for 
the  will  of  heaven  made  clear  within  us." 

Ingenuous  youth  blushed  itself  crimson.  "I  believe  so  too," 
the  timid  girl  answered  in  a  very  low  voice  and  with  a  heaving 
bosom. 

He  looked  her  through  and  through  with  his  large  dark  eyes. 
She  shrank  and  fluttered  before  his  searching  glance.  Should 
he  put  out  a  velvet  paw  for  his  mouse  now,  or  should  he  play 
with  it  artistically  a  little  longer?  Too  much  precipitancy 
spoils  the  fun  Better  wait  till  the  "  Echoes  from  Callimachus  " 
had  arrived.  T'aey  wore  very  fetching.  And  then,  besides — 
besides,  he  was  not  entirely  without  a  conscience.  A  man 
should  think  neither  of  wealth  nor  position,  nor  prospects  nor 
connections,  in  choosing  himself  a  partner  for  life.  His  own 
heart  led  him  straight  towards  Elsie,  not  towards  Winifred. 
Could  be  turn  his  back  upon  it,  with  tliose  words  on  his  lips, 
and  trample  poor  Elsie's  tender  heart  under  foot  ruthlessly  ? 
Principle  demanded  it;  but  he  had  not  the  strength  of  mind 
to  follow  principle  at  that  precise  moment.  He  looked  long 
and  deep  into  Winifred's  e.ves.  They  were  pretty  blue  eyes, 
though  pale  and  mawkish  by  the  side  of  Elsie's.  Then  he  said 
with  a  sudden  downcast,  half-awkward  glance — ^that  consum- 
mate actor — ''I  think  we  ought  to  go  back  to  your  motlur 
now,  Miss  Meysey." 

Winifred  sighed.  Not  yet!  Not  yet!  But  he  had  looked 
at  her  hard!  he  bad  fluttered  and  trembled!  He  was  sum- 
moning up  courage.  She  felt  sure  of  that.  He  didn't  venture 
as  yet  to  assault  her  openly.  Still,  she  was  certain  he  did  really 
like  her;  just  a  little  bit,  if  only  a  little. 

Next  morning,  as  she  strolled  alone  on  the  lawn,  a  villnge 
boy  in  a  corduroy  suit  came  lounging  up  from  the  inn,  in  rustic 
imouciance,  with  a  sm^ll  parcel  dangling  by  a  string  from  bis 


it 


TUB  ROADS  DIVIDE. 


63 


ly 


little  finpror.    She  knew  the  boy,  and  called  him  quickly  towards 
her.    "  Dick,"  she  cried,  "  what's  that  you've  got  there  ?  ** 

The  boy  handed  it  to  her  with  a  mysterious  nod.  "  It's  for 
you,  miss,"  he  said,  in  his  native  Suffolk,  screwing  up  his  face 
sideways  into  a  most  excruciating  pantomimic  expression  of 
the  profoundest  secrecy.  "The  gentleman  at  our  house, — him 
wooth  the  black  moostosh,  ye  know — he  towd  me  to  give  it  to 
yow,  into  yar  own  hands,  he  say,  if  I  could  manage  to  ketch  yo 
aloon  anyhow.  He  fared  partickler  about  yar  own  hands.  I 
heen't  got  t  >  wait,  cos  he  say,  there  oon't  be  noo  answer." 

Winifred  tore  the  packet  open  with  trembling  hands.  It  was 
a  neat  little  volume,  in  a  dainty  delicate  sage-green  cover — 
"  Echoes  from  Callimachus,  and  other  Poems ;  "  by  Hugh  Mas- 
singer,  sometime  Fellow  of  Oriel  College,  Oxford.  She  turned 
at  once  with  a  flutter  from  the  title-page  to  the  fly-leaf:  "A 
Mile.  Winifred  Meysey;  Hoinmage  de  I'auteur."  She  only 
waited  a  moment  to  slip  a  shilling  into  Dick's  hand,  and  then 
rushed  up,  all  crimson  with  delight,  into  her  own  bed-room. 
Twice  she  pressed  the  flimsy  little  sage-green  "volume  in  an 
ecstasy  to  her  lips;  then  she  laid  it  hastily  in  the  bottom  of 
a  drawer,  under  a  careless  pile  of  handkerchiefs  and  lace 
bodices.  She  wouldn't  tell  even  Elsie  of  that  tardy  much- 
prized  birthday  gift.  No  one  but  herself  must  ever  know 
Hugh  Massinger  had  sent  her  his  volume  of  poems. 

When  Dick  returned  to  the  inn  ten  minutes  later,  environed 
in  a  pervading  odour  of  peppermint,  the  indirect  result  of 
Winifred  Meysey 's  shilling,  Hugh  called  him  in  lazily  with  his 
quiet  authoritative  air  to  the  prim  little  parlour,  and  asked 
him  in  an  undertone  to  whom  he  had  given  the  precious  parcel. 

"To  the  young  lady  harself,"  Dick  answered  confidentially, 
thrusting  the  bull's-eye  with  his  tongue  into  his  pouched  cheek. 
"  I  give  it  to  bar  behind  the  laylacs,  too,  where  noo'one  coon't 
see  us." 

'*Dick,"  Hugh  Massinger  said,  in  a  profoundly  persuasive 
and  sententious  voice,  laying  his  hand  magisterially  on  the 
boy's  shoulder,  "you're  a  sharp  lad;  and  if  you  develop  your 
talents  steadily  in  this  direction,  you  may  rise  in  time  from  the 
distinguished  post  of  gentleman's  gentleman  to  be  a  private 
detective  or  confidential  agent,  with  an  office  of  your  own  at 
the  top  of  Regent  Street.  Dick,  say  nothing  about  this  on  any 
account  to  anybody ;  and  there,  my  boy — there's  half  a  crown 
for  you." 

"  The  young  lady  ha'  gin  me  one  shillcn  a' ready,"  Dick  replied 
with  alacrity,  pocketing  the  coin  with  a  broad  grin.  Business 
was  brisk  indeed  this  morning. 

"  The  young  lady  was  well  advised,"  Hngh  answered  grimly. 
"They're  cheap  at  the  price — dirt  cheap,  I  call  it,  those  im- 


H;; 


li,    :lUl 


yn 


i'  i 


w   K 


?^f*ni^MF^.  j»  iLiiii  inpij  II 


111 

r 


i;, 


I' 


ill 


4     ■  r''  ■ 

^1  \;  i 


64 


Tff/;S  MOltTAL  COIL. 


mortal  pocxns- -with  an  autograph  inscription  by  the  bard  in 
person. — And  I've  done  a  gcwd  stroke  of  business  myself  too. 
The  *  Echoes  from  Callimaehus '  are  a  capital  landing-net.  If 
they  don't  succeed  in  bringing  her  out,  all  flapping,  on  the  turf, 
gatfed  and  done  for,  a  pietty  speckled  prey,  why,  no  angler  on 
earth  that  ever  fished  for  women  will  get  so  much  as  a  tiny  rise 
out  of  her. — It's  a  very  fair  estate  still,  is  VVhitestrand.  'Paris 
vaut  bien  une  messe,'  said  Henri.  I  must  make  some  little 
sacrifices  myself  if  1  want  to  conquer  Whites trand  fair  and 
even." 

"Paris  vaut  bien  une  messe,"  indeed.    Was  Whitestrand 
worth  sacridcing  Elsie  Challouer's  heart  for  ? 


CHAPTER  IX. 

HIGH-WATEU. 

Meanwhile,  Warren  Relf,  navigating  the  pervasive  and  ubiquitous 
little  Mud-Turthyhixdi  spent  his  summer  congenially  in  cruising  in 
and  out  of  Essex  mud-flats  and  Norfolk  broads,  accompanied  by 
his  friend  ai;^  chum  Potts,  the  marine  painter — now  lying  high 
and  dry  with  the  ebbing  tide  on  some  broad  bare  bank  of  ribl)ed 
sand,  just  relieved  by  a  battle-royal  of  gulls  and  rooks  from  the 
last  reproach  of  utter  monotony  ;  now  working  hard  at  the  coun- 
terfeit presentment  of  a  green-grown  wreck,  all  picturesque  with 
waving  tresses  of  weed  and  sea-wrack,  in  some  stranded  estuary 
of  the  Thames  backwaters  ;  and  now  again  tossing  and  lopping 
on  the  uneasy  bosom  of  the  German  Ocean,  whoso  rise  and  fall 
would  seem  to  suggest  to  a  casual  observer's  mind  the  physiolo- 
gical notion  that  its  own  included  crabs  and  lobsters  had  given 
it  a  prolonged  and  serious  fit  of  marine  indigestion.  For  a 
couple  of  months  at  a  stretch  the  two  young  artist-s  had  toiled 
away  ceaselessly  at  their  labour  of  love,  painting  the  sea  itself 
and  all  that  therein  is,  with  the  eyots,  creeks,  rivers,  sands, 
cliffs,  banks,  and  inlets  adjacent,  in  every  variety  of  mood  or 
feature,  from  its  glassiest  calm  to  its  augiiest  tempest,  with 
endless  patience,  delight,  and  satisfaction.  They  enjoyed  their 
work,  and  their  work  repaid  them.  It  was  almost  all  the  pay- 
ment they  ever  got,  indeed,  for,  like  loyal  sons  of  the  Cheyno 
Row  Club,  the  crew  of  the  Mad-TarUt  were  not  successful. 
And  now,  as  September  was  more  than  half  through,  Warreu 
Relf  began  to  bethink  him  at  last  of  Hugh  Massiugor,  whom  ho 
had  left  in  rural  ease  on  dry  land  at  VVhitestrand  under  a 
general  promise  to  return  for  him  "in  the  month  of  the  long 
decline  of  roses,"  some  time  between  the  loth  and  the  20th.    So, 


BIGH-WATER. 

on  a  windy  morning,  about  that  precise  period  of  the  year,  with 
a  north-easterly  breeze  setting  strong  across  the  North  Sea,  and 
a  falling  barometer  threatening  sqnalls,  according  to  the  printed 
weather  report,  he  made  his  way  out  of  the  mouth  cf  the  Yare, 
and  turned  southward  before  the  flowing  ide  in  the  direction 
of  Whitestrand. 

The  sea  was  running  high  and  splendid,  and  the  two  young 
painters,  inured  to  toil  and  accustomed  to  danger,  thoroughly 
enjoyed  its  wild  magnificence.  A  storm  to  them  was  a  study  in 
o'^tion.  They  could  take  notes  calmly  of  its  fiercest  moments. 
Almost  every  wave  broke  over  the  deck;  and  the  patient  littlo 
Mud- Turtle,  with  her  flat  bottom  and  centre-board  keel,  tossed 
about  like  a  wa.lnut  shell  on  the  surface  of  the  water,  or  drove 
her  nose  madly  from  time  to  time  into  the  crest  of  a  billow,  to 
emerge  triumphant  one  moment  later,  all  shining  and  dripping 
with  sticky  brine,  in  the  deep  trough  on  the  other  side.  Painting 
in  such  a  sea  was  of  course  simply  impossible ;  but  Warren  Relf, 
who  loved  his  art  with  supreme  devotion,  and  never  missed  an 
opportunity  of  catching  a  hint  from  his  evtr-changing  model 
under  the  most  unpromising  circumstances,  took  out  pencil  and 
pajier  a  dozen  times  in  the  course  of  the  day  to  preserve  at  least 
in  black  and  white  some  passing  aspect  of  her  mutable  features. 
Potts  for  the  most  part  managed  sheet  and  helm ;  while  Eelf, 
in  the  intervals  of  luffing  or  tacking,  holding  hard  to  the  main- 
mast with  his  left  arm,  and  with  the  left  hand  just  grasping  his 
drawing-pad  on  the  other  side  of  the  mast,  jottec*  hastily  down 
with  his  right  whatever  peculiar  form  of  spray  cr  billow  hap- 
pened for  the  moment  to  catch  and  impress  his  artistic  fancy. 
It  was  a  glorious  day  for  those  who  liked  it;  though  a  land- 
lubber would  no  doubt  have  roundly  called  it  a  frightful 
voyage. 

They  hnd  meant  to  make  Whitestrand  before  evening;  but 
half-way  down,  an  incident  of  a  sort  that  Warren  Ptelf  could 
never  bear  to  miss  intervened  to  delay  them.  They  fell  iu 
casually  with  a  North  Sea  trawler,  disabled  and  distressed  by 
last  night's  \.  le,  now  scudding  under  bare  poles  before  the  free 
breeze,  that  churned  and  whitened  the  entire  surface  of  the 
German  Ocean.  The  men  on  board  were  in  sore  straits,  though 
not  as  yet  in  immediate  danger;  and  the  yawl  gallantly  stood  in 
close  by  her,  to  pick  up  the  swimmers  in  case  of  serious  accident. 
The  shrill  wind  tore  at  her  mainmast;  the  waves  charged  her  in 
vngue  ranks;  the  gaflf  quivered  and  moaned  at  the  shocks;  and 
ever  and  anon,  with  a  bellowing  rush,  the  resistless  sea  swept 
over  her  triumphantly  from  stem  to  stern.  Meanwhile,  Warren 
Eelf,  eager  to  fix  this  stray  episode  on  good  white  paper  while  it 
was  still  before  his  eyes,  made  wild  and  rapid  dashes  on  his  pad 
with  a  sprawling  hand,  which  conveyed  to  his  mind,  in  strango 


%\ 


% 


i  I, 


J:i: 


.;'; 


Mr 
i 


m 


mis : 


Mi 


00 


27775  MORTAL   COIL. 


sliortliand  hicroglypliics,  somo  faint  idea  of  llie  scene  as  it 
passed  before  him. 

"  Slie's  a  terrible  bad  sitter,  this  smack,"  he  observed  in  a 
loud  voice  to  Potts,  with  good-humoured  enthusiasm,  as  they 
held  on  together  with  struggling  hands  on  the  deck  of  the  Mud- 
Turtle.  "  The  moment  you  think  you've  just  caught  her  against 
the  skyline  on  the  crest  of  a  wave,  she  lurches  again,  and  over 
she  goes,  plump  down  into  the  trough,  before  you've  had  a 
chance  to  make  a  single  mark  upon  your  sheet  of  paper.  Ships 
are  always  precious  bad  sitters  at  the  best  of  times ;  but  when 
you  and  your  model  are  both  plunging  and  to<?sirg  together  in 
dirty  weather  on  a  loppy  channel,  I  don't  believe  even  Turner 
himself  could  make  much  out  of  it  in  the  way  of  a  sketch  from 
nature — Hold  hard,  there,  Frank !  Look  out  for  your  head ! 
Slie's  going  to  ship  a  thundering  big  sea  across  her  bows  this 
very  minute. — By  Jove  1  I  wonder  how  the  smack  stood  that 
last  high  wave ! — Is  she  gone  ?  Did  it  break  over  her  ?  Can 
you  see  her  ahead  there  ?  " 

"  She's  all  right  still,"  Potts  shouted  from  the  bow,  where  he 
stood  noAV  in  his  oilskin  suit,  drenched  from  head  to  foot  Avith 
the  dashing  spray,  but  cheery  as  ever,  in  true  sailor  fashion.  "  I 
can  see  her  mast  just  showing  alcove  the  crest.  But  it  must 
have  givf  !i  her  a  jolly  pood  wetting.  Shall  we  signal  the  men 
to  know  if  they'd  like  to  come  aboard  here?  " 

"Signal  away,"  Warren  Eelf  answered  good-humouredly 
above  the  noise  of  the  wind.  "  No  more  sketching  for  me  to- 
day, I  take  it.  That  last  lot  she  shipped  wet  my  pad  through 
and  through  with  the  nasty  damp  brine.  I'd  better  put  my 
sketch,  as  far  as  it  goes,  down  below  in  the  locker.  Wind's 
freshening.  We'll  have  enough  to  do  to  keep  her  nose  straight 
in  half  a  gale  like  this.  We're  going  within  four  or  five  points 
of  the  wind  now,  as  it  is.  I  wish  we  could  run  clear  ahead  at 
once  for  the  poplar  at  Whitestrand.  I  would,  too,  if  it  weren't 
for  the  smack.  This  is  getting  every  bit  as  hot  as  I  like  it.  But 
we  must  keep  an  eye  upon  her,  if  we  don't  want  her  crew  to  bo 
all  dead  men.  She  can't  live  six  hours  lunger  in  a  gale  like  to- 
day's, I'll  bet  you  any  money." 

They  signalled  the  men,  but  found  them  unwilling  still,  with 
true  seafaring  devotion,  to  abandon  their  ship,  which  liad  yet 
some  hours  of  life  left  in  her.  They'd  stick  to  the  smack,  the 
skipper  signalled  back  in  mute  pantomime,  as  long  as  her 
timbers  held  out  the  water.  There  was  nothing  for  it,  therefore, 
but  to  lie  hard  by  her,  for  humanity's  sake,  as  close  as  possil)le, 
and  to  make  as  slowly  as  the  strength  of  the  wind  would  allow, 
by  successive  tacks,  for  the  river-mouth  at  W^hitestrand. 

All  day  long,  they  held  up  bravely,  lurching  and  plunging  on 
the  angry  waves;  and  only  towards  evening  did  they  part 


HIGE'WATEIi, 


67 


•c, 

0, 


company  with  the  toiling  smack,  as  it  was  prowing  dusk  along 
the  low  flat  stretch  of  shore  by  Dunwich.  Tliere,  a  fish-carrier 
from  the  North  Sea,  one  of  those  fast  long  steamers  that  plough 
the  German  Ocean  on  the  look-out  for  the  fishing  flleet — whose 
catches  they  take  up  with  all  speed  to  the  London  market,  fell 
in  with  them  in  the  very  nick  of  time,  and  transferring  the 
crew  on  board  with  some  little  difficulty,' made  fast  the  smack 
— or  rather  her  wreck— with  a  towline  behind,  and  started 
under  all  steam  to  save  her  life  for  the  port  of  Harwich. 
Warren  Keif  and  his  companion,  despising  such  aid,  and  pre- 
ferring to  live  it  out  by  themselves  at  all  hazards,  were  left 
behind  alone  witli  the  wild  evening,  and  proceeded  in  the 
growing  shades  of  twilight  to  find  their  way  up  the  river  at 
Wliitestrand. 

"  Can  you  make  out  the  poplar,  Frank  ? "  Warren  Relf 
Fhouted  out,  as  he  peered  ahead  into  the  deep  gloom  that 
enveloped  the  coast  with  its  murky  covering.  '*  We've  left  it 
rather  late,  I'm  afraid,  for  pushing  up  the  creek  with  a  sea  like 
this!  Unless  we  can  spot  the  poplar  distinctly,  I  should  hardly 
like  to  risk  entering  it  by  the  red  liglit  on  the  sandhills  alone. 
Those  must  be  the  lamps  at  Whitestrand  Hall,  the  three 
windows  to  starboard  yonder.  The  poplar  ought  to  show  by 
rights  a  point  or  so  west  of  them,  with  the  striped  buoy  just  a 
little  this  side  of  it." 

"  I  can  make  out  the  striped  buoy  by  the  white  paint  on  it," 
his  companion  answered,  pazing  eagerly  in  front  of  him;  "but 
I  fancy  it's  a  shade  too  dark  now  to  be  sure  of  the  poplar.  The 
lights  of  the  Hall  don't  seem  quite  regular.  Still,  I  should 
think  we  could  make  the  creek  by  the  red  lantern  and  the 
beacon  at  the  hitlie,  without  minding  the  tree,  if  you  care  to 
risk  it.  You  know  your  way  up  and  down  the  river  as  well  as 
any  man  living  by  this  time ;  and  we've  got  a  fair  breeze  at  our 
backs,  you  see,  for  going  up  the  mouth  to  the  bend  at  White- 
gtrand." 

The  wind  moaned  like  a  woman  in  agony.  The  timbers 
creaked  and  groaned  and  crackled.  The  black  waves  lashed 
f-avagely  over  the  deck.  The  Mud-Turtle  was  almost  on  the 
shore  before  they  knew  it. 

"Luif,  luff!"  Eolf  called  out  hastily,  as  he  peered  once  more 
into  the  deepening  gloom  with  all  his  ejes.  "  By  George  !  we're 
wrong.  I  can  see  the  poplar— over  yonder;  do  you  catch  it? 
We're  out  of  our  bearings  a  quarter  of  a  mile.  Wo've  gone  too 
far  now  to  make  it  this  tack.  We  must  try  a^ain,  and  get  our 
points  better  by  the  high  light.  That  was  a  narrow  squeak  of 
it,  by  Jove!  Frank.  I  can  twig  where  we've  got  to  now, 
distinctly.  It's  the  lights  in  the  house  that  led  us  astray. 
That's  not  the  Hall :  it's  the  windows  of  tho  vicarage." 


:m! 


ili  11 


i 

i 

■ill 


;n 


m 


68 


THIS  MORTAL  COIL, 


They  ran  out  to  eastward  again,  for  more  sea-room,  a  coupio 
of  hundred  yard«»,  or  farther,  and  tacked  afresh  for  the  entrance 
of  the  creek,  this  time  adjusting  their  course  better  for  the  open 
mouth  by  the  green  lamp  of  the  beacon  on  the  sandhills.  The 
light  iixed  on  their  own  masthead  threw  a  glimmering  ray 
ahead  from  time  to  time  upon  the  anqry  water.  It  was  a  hard 
fight  for  mastery  with  the  wind.  The  waves  were  settiDg  in 
fierce  and  strong  towards  the  creek  now;  bat  the  tide  and 
stream  on  the  other  hand  were  ebbing  rapidly  and  steadily  out- 
ward. They  always  ebbed  fast  at  the  turn  of  the  tide,  as  Eelf 
knew  well :  a  rushing  current  set  in  then  round  the  corner  by 
the  poplar-tree,  the  same  current  that  had  carried  out  Hugh 
Massinger  so  resistlessly  seaward  in  that  little  adventure  of  his 
on  the  morning  of  their  first  arrival  at  Whitestrand.  Only  an 
experienced  mariner  dare  face  that  bar.  But  Warren  Eelf  was 
accustomed  to  the  coast,  and  made  light  of  the  danger  that  other 
men  would  have  trembled  at. 

As  they  neared  the  poplar  a  second  time,  making  straight  for 
the  mouth  with  nautical  dexterity,  a  pale  object  on  the  port 
bow,  rising  and  falling  with  each  rise  or  fall  of  the  waves  on 
the  bar,  attracted  Warren  Eelfs  casual  attention  for  a  single 
moment  by  its  strange  weird  likeness  to  a  human  figure.  At 
first,  he  hardly  regarded  the  thing  seriously  as  anything  more 
than  a  stray  bit  of  floating  wreckage;  but  presently,  the  light 
from  the  masthead  fell  full  upon  it,  and  with  a  sudden"  flash  ho 
felt  convinced  at  once  it  was  eomething  stranger  than  a  mero 
plank  or  fragment  of  rigging. 

"  Look  yonder,  Frank,"  he  called  out  in  echoing  tones  to  his 
mate ;  "  that  can't  be  a  buoy  upon  the  port  bow  there ! " 

The  other  man  looked  at  it  long  and  steadily.  As  he  looked, 
the  Mud-Turtle  lurched  once  more,  and  cast  a  reflected  pencil 
ray  of  light  from  the  masthead  lamp  over  the  surlace  of  the  sea, 
away  in  the  direction  of  the  suspicious  object.  Both  men  caught 
sight  at  once  of  some  floating  white  drapery,  swayed  by  tho 
waves,  and  a  pale  face  upturned  in  ghastly  silence  to  the  un- 
certain starlight. 

"  Port  your  helm  hard ; "  Eelf  cried  in  haste.  '*  It's  a  man 
overboard.  Washed  off  the  smack  perhaps.  He's  drowned  by 
this  time,  I  expect,  poor  fellow." 

His  companion  ported  the  helm  at  the  word  with  all  his 
might.  Tlie  yawl  answered  well  in  spite  of  the  breakers. 
With  great  diflSculty,  between  wind  and  tide,  they  lay  up 
towards  the  mysterious  thing  slowly  in  the  very  trough  of  the 
billows  that  roared  and  danced  with  hoarse  joy  over  the  shallow 
bar ;  and  Eelf,  holding  tight  to  the  sheet  with  one  hand,  anil 
balancing  himself  as  well  as  he  was  able  on  the  deck,  reached 
out  with  the  other  a  stout  boathook  to  diaw  the  tossing  boily 


SHUFFLING  IT  OFF, 


69 


nloiig^ide  williin  hauling  distance  of  the  Mud-TartJe.  As  he 
did  PO,  the  body,  eluding  his  grasp,  rose  once  more  on  the  crest 
of  the  wave,  and  displayed  to  their  view  an  open  bosom  and  a 
long  white  dress,  with  a  floating  scarf  or  shawl  of  some  thin 
material  still  hanging  loose  around  the  neck  and  shoulders. 
The  face  itself  they  couldn't  as  yet  distinguish ;  it  fell  back 
languid  beneath  the  spray  at  the  top,  so  that  only  the  throat 
and  chin  were  visible ;  but  by  the  dress  and  the  open  bosom 
alone,  it  w  as  clear  at  once  that  the  object  they  saw  was  not  the 
corpse  of  a  sailor.  Warren  Keif  almost  let  drop  the  boathook  in 
horror  and  surprise. 

"Great  heavens!"  he  exclaimed,  turning  round  excitedly, 
"itV;  a  woman — a  lady — dead— in  the  water ! " 

The  billow  broke,  and  curled  over  majestically  with  resistless 
force  into  the  trough  below  them.  Its  undertow  sucked  the 
Mud-Tuith  after  it  fiercely  towards  the  shore,  away  from  the 
body.  ^Yith  a  violent  effort,  Warren  Eelf,  lunging  forward 
eagerly  at  the  lureh,  seized  hold  of  the  corpse  by  the  floating 
scarf.  It  turned  of  itself  as  the  hook  caught  it,  and  displayed 
i1s  face  in  the  |iale  starlight.  A  great  awe  fell  suddenly  upon 
the  nstoiiishcd  young  painter's  mind.  It  was  indeed  a  woman 
that  he  held  now  by  the  dripping  hair — a  beautiful  young  girl, 
in  a  white  dress ;  and  the  wan  face  was  one  he  had  seen  before. 
Even  in  that  dim  half-light  he  recognized  her  instantly. 

"  Frank ! "  he  cried  out  in  a  voice  of  hushed  and  reverent 
surprise — "never  mind  the  ship.  Come  forward  and  help  me. 
We  must  take  her  on  board.  I  know  her !  I  know  her !  She's 
a  friend  of  Massinger's." 

The  corpse  was  one  of  the  two  young  girls  he  had  seen  that 
day  two  months  before  sitting  with  their  arms  round  one 
another's  waists,  close  to  the  very  spot  where  tViey  now  lay  up, 
on  the  gnarled  and  naked  roots  of  the  famous  old  poplar. 


'1 


It  't;:i 


1   if 


CHAPTER  X. 


m 


SHUFFLING   IT  OITP. 


The  day  had  been  an  eventful  one  for  Hugh  Massinger:  iho 
most  eventful  and  pregnant  of  his  whole  history.  As  long  as 
he  lived,  he  could  never  ]  ossibly  forget  it.  It  was  indeed  a 
critical  turning-^oint  for  three  separate  lives — his  own,  and 
Elsie's,  and  Winifi  ed  Mctyscy's.  For,  as  Hugh  had  walked  that 
morning,  stick  in  Land  and  orchid  in  buttonhole,  down  the  rose- 
embowered  lane  in  the  Squire's  grounds  with  Winifred,  he  had 
asked  the  frightened,  blushing  girl,  in  simple  and  straight- 


i 


n 


THIS  MORTAL   COIL. 


t 


forward  language,  without  any  preliminary,  to  Vccome  his  wife. 
His  shy  fish  was  fairly  hooked  at  last,  he  thought  now :  no  need 
for  daintily  playing  hia  catch  any  longer ;  it  was  but  a  question, 
as  tilings  stood,  of  reel  and  of  landing-net.  The  father  and 
mother,  those  important  accessories,  were  pretty  safe  in  their 
way  too.  He  had  sounded  them  both  by  unobtrusive  methods, 
with  dexterous  plummets  of  oblique  inquiry,  and  had  gauged 
their  profoundest  depths  of  opinion  with  tolerable  accuracy,  as 
to  settlements  and  other  ante-nuptial  precontracts  of  marriage. 
For  what  is  the  use  of  catching  an  heiress  on  yonr  own  rod,  if 
your  heiress's  parents,  upon  whose  testamentary  disposition  in 
the  last  resort  her  entire  market  value  really  depends,  look 
askance  with  eyes  of  obvious  disfavour  upon  your  personal  pre- 
tensions as  their  future  son-in-law  ?  Hugh  Massinger  was  keen 
enough  sportsman  in  his  own  line  to  make  quite  sure  of  hia 
expected  game  before  irrevocably  committing  himself  to  duck- 
shot  cartridge.  He  was  confident  he  knew  his  ground  now;  so, 
with  a  bold  face  and  a  modest  assurance,  he  ventured,  in  a  few 
plain  and  well-chosen  words,  to  commend  his  suit,  his  hand, 
and  his  heart  to  Winifred  Meysey's  favourable  attention. 

It  was  a  great  sacrifice,  and  he  felt  it  as  such.  He  was 
positively  throwing  himself  away  upon  Winifred.  If  he  had 
followed  his  own  crude  inclinations  alone,  like  a  romantic  school- 
boy, he  would  have  waited  for  ever  and  ever  for  his  cousin  Elsie. 
Elsie  was  indeed  the  one  true  love  of  his  youth.  He  bad  always 
loved  her,  and  he  would  always  love  her.  'Twas  foolish,  perhaps, 
to  indulge  overmuch  in  these  personal  preferences,  but  after  all 
it  w.'is  very  human ;  and  Hugh  acknowledged  regretfully  in  his 
own  heart  that  he  was  not  entirely  raised  in  that  respect  above 
the  average  level  of  human  weaknesses.  Still,  a  man,  however 
humanesque, must  not  be  governed  by  impulse  alone.  He  must 
judge  calmly,  deliberately,  impersonally,  disinterestedly  of  his 
own  future,  and  muf^t  act  for  the  best  in  the  long-run  by  the 
light  of  his  own  final  and  judicial  opinion.  Now,  Winifred  was 
without  doubt  a  very  exceptional  and  eligible  chance  for  a  brief- 
less barrister :  your  sucking  poet  doesn't  get  such  chances  of  an 
undisputed  heiress  every  day  of  the  week,  you  may  take  your 
jiffidavit.  If  he  let  her  slip  by  on  sentimental  grounds,  and 
waited  for  Elsie — poor,  dear  old  Elsie — heaven  only  knew  how 
long  they  might  both  have  to  wait  for  one  another — and  perhaps 
even  then  be  finally  disappointed.  It  wtis  a  foolish  dream  on 
Elsie's  part ;  for,  to  say  the  truth,  he  himself  Itad  never  seriously 
entertained  it.  The  most  merciful  thing  to  Elsie  herself  would 
be  to  snap  it  short  now,  once  for  all,  before  things  went  further, 
and  let  her  stand  face  to  face  with  nakea  facts :  ah,  how  hideously 
naked ! — let  her  know  she  must  either  look  out  another  husband 
eomewhere  for  herself,  or  go  on  earning  her  own  livelihood  in 


SHUFFLING  IT  OFF. 


71 


maideii  mrditation,  fancy  freo,  for  the  remaining  term  of  her 
natural  existence.  Hugh  could  never  help  ending  up  a  subject, 
however  unpleasant,  even  in  his  own  mind,  with  a  poetical  tag : 
it  was  a  trick  of  manner  his  soul  had  caught  from  the  wouted 
peroration  of  his  political  leaders  in  the  iirst  editorial  column  of 
tliat  exalted  print,  the  Morning  Telephone.  So  he  made  up  his 
'  mind ;  and  he  proposed  to  Winifred. 

The  girl's  heart  gave  a  sudden  bound,  and  the  red  blood 
flushed  her  somewhat  pallid  cheek  with  liasty  roses  as  she 
listened  to  ^Hugh's  graceful  and  easy  avowal  of  the  profound 
and  unfeigned  love  that  he  proffered  her.  She  thought  of  the 
poem  Hugh  had  read  her  aloud  in  his  sonorous  tones  the 
evening  before — much  virtue  in  a  judiciously  selected  passage 
of  poetry,  well  marked  in  delivery,: 

"  •  He  does  not  love  me  for  my  birth, 

Nor  for  my  lands  so  broad  and  fair ; 
He  loves  me  for  my  own  true  worth, 
And  that  is  well,'  said  Lady  Clare," 

Tliat  was  how  Hugh  Massinger  loved  her,  she  was  quite  sure. 
Had  lie  not  trembled  and  hesitated  to  ask  her?  llor  bosoiu 
fluttered  with  a  delicious  fluttering;  but  she  cast  her  eyes  down, 
and  answered  nothing  for  a  brief  space.  Then  her  heart  gave 
lier  courage  to  look  up  once  more,  and  to  munnur  back,  in 
answer  to  his  pleading  look :  "  Hugh,  I  love  you."  And  Hugh, 
carried  away  not  ungracefully  by  the  impulse  of  the  moment, 
felt  his  own  heart  thrill  responsive  to  hers  in  real  earnest,  and 
in  utter  temporary  forgetfulness  of  poor  betrayed  and  abandoned 
Elsie.  They  walked  back  to  the  Hall  together  next  minute, 
whispering"  low,  in  the  fool's  paradise  of  first  young  love— a 
Jbol's  paradise,  indeed,  for  those  two  poor  lovers,  whose  wooing 
eet  out  under  such  evil  auspices. 

But  when  Hugh  had  left  his  landed  prey  at  the  front  door  of 
the  square-built  manor-house,  and  strolled  off  by  himself  towards 
the  village  inn,  the  difficulty  about  Elsie  for  the  first  time  began 
to  stare  him  openly  in  the  face  in  all  its  real  and  horrid  mag- 
nitude. He  would  have  to  confess  and  to  explain  to  Elsie. 
Worse  still,  for  a  man  of  his  mettle  and  his  sensitiveness,  he 
would  have  to  apologise  for  and  excuse  his  own  conduct.  That 
was  unendurable — that  was  ignominious — that  was  pven  absurd. 
His  virility  kicked  at  it.  There  is  something  essentially  insulting 
and  degrading  to  one's  manhood  in  having  to  tell  a  girl  you'vo 
pretended  to  love,  that  you  really  and  tru'y  don't  love  her — 
that  you  only  care  for  her  in  a  sisterly  fashion.  It  is  practically 
to  unsex  one's  self.  A  pretty  girl  appeals  quite  otherwise  to  the 
man  that  is  in  us.  Hugh  felt  it  bitterly  and  deeply— for  him- 
self, not  for  Elsie.    He  pitied  his  own  sad  plight  must  sincerely. 


; '  'i^ 


'    ■    '  ill ' 
-  ,   .m  *. 

if       1114 


Is  I 


79 


TUm  MORTAL   COIL. 


But  then,  tl'rro  was  poor  Elsio  to  think  of  too.  No  iiso  in  the 
world  ill  blinking  that.  Elsie  loved  him  very,  vcsry  dearly.  True, 
they  had  never  been  engaged  to  one  another — so  great  is  tho 
love  of  consistency  in  man,  that  even  alone  in  his  own  mind 
Hugh  continued  to  hug  that  translucent  fiction;  but  she  had 
been  very  fond  of  him,  undeniably  fond  of  him,  and  he  had 
perhaps  from  time  to  time,  by  overt  acts,  unduly  encouraged 
the  display  of  her  fondness.  It  gratiiicd  his  vanity  and  his  sense 
of  his  own  pow'er  over  women  to  do  so:  he  could  make  them 
love  him — few  men  more  easily — and  he  liked  to  exercise  that 
dangerous  faculty  on  every  suitable  subject  that  flitted  across 
his  changeful  horizon.  The  man  with  a  mere  passion  for  making 
conquests  affords  no  serious  menace  to  the  world's  happiness; 
but  the  man  with  an  innate  gift  for  calling  forth  wherever  he 
goes  all  the  deepest  iind  truest  instincts  of  a  woman's  nature  is, 
— when  ho  abuses  his  power — the  most  deadly,  terrible,  and 
cruel  creatnro  known  in  our  age  to  civilized  humanity.  And 
yet  he  is  not  alwnys  deliberately  cruel;  sometimes,  as  in  Hugh 
Massinger's  case,  ho  almost  believes  himself  to  be  good  and 
innocent. 

He  had  warned  Winifred  to  whisper  nothing  for  the  present 
to  Elsie  about  tliis  cngjigement  of  theirs.  f]lsie  was  his  cousin, 
ho  said — his  only  relati'  n— and  he  would  dearly  like  to  tell  her 
the  secret  of  his  hear,  ims^clf  in  private.  He  would  seo  her 
that  evening  an .1  bieak  the  news  to  her.  *'  Why  break  it  V  " 
Winifred  had  asked  in  doubt,  all  unconscious.  And  Hugh, 
a  strange  suppressed  smile  playing  uneasily  about  the  corners 
of  his  thin  lips,  had  answered  with  guileless  alacrity  of  sijeech  : 
"Because  Elsie's  like  a  sister  to  me,  you  know,  Winifred;  and 
sisters  always  to  some  extent  reseut  the  baro  idea  of  their 
brothers  marrying." 

For  as  yet  Elsie  herself  suspected  nothing.  It  was  best,  Hugh 
thought,  she  should  susi)ect  nothing.  That  was  a  cardinal 
point  in  his  easy-going  practical  philosophy  of  lie.  Ho  never 
went  half-way  to  meet  trouble  Till  Winifred  had  accepted 
him,  why  worry  poor  dear  Elsie's  gentle  littlo  soul  with  what 
was,  after  all,  a  mere  remote  chance,  a  contingent  possibility? 
He  would  first  make  quite  sure,  by  actual  trial,  where  he  stood 
with  Winifred ;  and  then — and  then,  like  a  thunderbolt  from  a 
clear  sky,  he  might  let  the  whole  truth  burst  in  full  force  at 
once  upon  poor  lonely  Elsie's  devoted  head.  Meanwhile,  with 
extraordinary  cleverness  and  care,  he  continued  to  dissemble. 
He  never  made  open  love  to  Winifred  before  Elsie's  face;  on 
the  contrary,  ho  kept  the  whole  small  comedy  of  his  relations 
with  Winifred  so  skilfully  concealed  from  her  feminine  eyes, 
that  to  the  very  last  moment  Elsie  never  even  dreamt  of  her 
pretty  pupil  as  a  possible  rival,  or  regarded  her  in  any  other 


di 
T 


m< 
in 


Wm 


wM^ 


^■^^ — 1 


BUUFFLING  IT  OFF. 


78 


conceivable  lipht  than  ns  tho  nearest  of  friends  and  the  dearest 
of  sisters.  Wlienever  Hugh  spoke  of  Winifred  to  Elsie  at  all, 
he  spoke  of  her  lightly,  almost  slightingly,  as  a  nice  little 
girl,  in  her  childish  way — though  much  too  blue-eyed — with  a 
sort  of  distant  bread-and-butterish  schoolroom  jii)i)robation, 
which  wholly  misled  and  hoodwinked  Elsio  as  to  his  real 
intentions.  And  whenever  he  spoke  of  EUio  to  WinilVod,  he 
spoke  of  her  jestingly,  with  a  good-humoured,  unmeaning, 
brotherly  aflfection  that  made  the  very  notion  of  his  ever  con- 
templating marriaf.'o  with  her  seem  simply  ridiculous.  She  wa« 
to  hira  indeed  as  the  deceased  wife's  sister  is  in  the  eye  of  the 
law  to  the  British  widower.  With  his  easy,  ofF-hand  London 
cleverness,  he  had  baffled  and  deceived  both  those  innocent, 
simple-minded,  trustful  women;  and  he  stood  face  to  face  now 
with  a  general  iclaircmement  which  could  no  longer  be  delayed, 
but  whoso  ultimate  consequences  might  perhaps  prove  fatal 
to  all  his  little  domestic  arrangements. 

Would  Elsie  in  her  anger  Ret  Winifred  against  him?  Would 
Winifred,  justly  indignant  at  his  conduct  to  Elsie,  refuse,  when 
she  learned  the  whole  truth,  to  marry  him  ? 

Nonsense— nonsen^  9.  No  cause  for  alarm.  He  had  never 
really  been  engaged  to  Elsie — he  had  said  so  to  her  face  a  thou- 
sand times.  If  Elsie  chose  to  misinterpret  his  kind  attentions, 
bestowed  upon  her  solely  as  his  one  remaining  cousin  and  kins- 
woman, the  only  other  channel  for  the  blood  of  the  Massingers, 
surely  Winifred  would  never  be  so  foolish  as  to  fall  blindly  into 
Elsie's  solf-imposcd  error,  and  to  hold  him  to  a  bargain  he  had 
over  and  over  again  expressly  repudiated.  Ho  was  a  barrister, 
and  he  knew  his  ground  in  these  matters.  Chitty  on  Cimtract 
lays  it  down  as  an  established  principle  of  English  law  that  free 
consent  of  both  parties  forms  a  condition  precedent  and  essential 
part  of  the  very  existence  of  a  compact  of  marriage. 

With  such  transparent  internal  sophisms  did  llugh  Massingcr 
strive  all  day  to  stifle  and  smother  his  own  conscience ;  for  every 
man  always  at  least  pretends  to  keep  up  appearances  in  his  pri- 
vate relations  with  that  inexorable  domestic  censor.  But  as 
evening  came  on,  cigarette  in  mouth,  he  strolled  round  after 
dinner,  by  special  appointment,  to  meet  Elsie  at  the  big  poplar. 
They  often  met  there,  these  warm  summer  n'glits;  and  on  this 
particular  occasion,  anticipating  trouble,  Hugh  had  definitely 
arranged  with  Elsie  beforehand  to  come  to  him  by  eight  at  the 
accustomed  trysting-place.  The  Meyseys  and  Winifred  had 
gone  out  to  dinner  at  a  neighbouring  vicarage ;  but  Elsie  had 
stopped  at  home  on  purpose,  on  the  hasty  plea  of  some  slight 
passing  headache.  Hugh  had  specially  asked  her  to  wait  and 
meet  hira.  Bftier  get  it  all  over  at  once,  he  thought  to  himself, 
in  his  shortsigiited  wisdom — like  the  measles  or  the  chicken-pox 


111 

]  I 

M 

I    I 


it 


!■  '     t 


.   I     i 


;  ■  . 
1 1 ) 


i:       iii 


74 


THIS  MORTAL   COIL, 


M 


—and  know  straight  oflF  exactly  where  he  stood  in  his  new 
position  with  tliCHo  two  women. 

Women  were  the  greatest  nuisance  in  life.  For  his  own  part, 
now  ho  came  to  k)ok  the  thing  squarely  in  the  face,  he  really 
wished  ho  was  well  quit  of  them  all  for  good  and  ever. 

He  was  early  for  his  appointment ;  but  by  the  tree  he  found 
Elsie,  in  her  pretty  white  dress,  alieady  waiting  for  him.  His 
Ikart  gave  a  juuip,  a  pleased  jump,  as  he  saw  her  sitting  there 
before  her  time.  Dear,  dear  Elsie ;  she  was  very,  very  fond  of 
him!  He  would  have  given  worlds  to  fling  his  arms  tight 
around  her  then,  and  strain  her  to  his  bosom  and  kiss  lier 
tenderly.  Ho  would  have  given  worlds,  but  not  his  rever- 
bionary  chances  in  the  Whitcstrand  property.  Worlds  don't 
count;  the  entire  fee-simple  of  Mars  and  Jupiter  would  fetch 
nothing  in  the  real-estate  market.  He  was  bound  by  contract  to 
Winifred  now,  and  he  must  do  his  best  to  break  it  gently  to  ^''  ^io. 

He  stepiied  up  and  kissed  her  quietly  on  the  forehe.id,  and 
took  her  hand  in  his  like  a  brother.  Elsie  let  it  lie  in  her  own 
without  remonstrance.  They  rose  and  walked  in  lovers'  guise 
along  the  bank  together.  His  heart  .sank  within  him  at  the 
hideous  task  ho  had  next  to  perform — nothing  less  than  to 
break  poor  Elsie's  heart  for  her.  If  only  he  could  have  shuffled 
out  of  it  sideways  anyhow!  But  shuffling  was  impossible.  He 
hated  himself;  and  he  loved  Elsie.  Never  till  that  moment 
did  he  know  how  he  loved  her. 

This  would  never  do !  He  was  feeling  like  a  fool.  He  crushed 
down  the  love  sternly  in  his  heart,  and  began  to  talk  about  iu- 
diiferent  subjects — the  wind,  the  river,  tlie  rose-show  at  the 
vicarage.  But  his  voice  trembled,  betraying  him  still  against 
his  will ;  and  he  could  not  refrain  from  stealing  sidelong  looks 
at  Elsie's  dark  eyes  now  and  again,  and  observing  how  beautiful 
slie  was,  after  all,  in  a  rare  and  exquisite  type  of  beauty.  Wini- 
fred's blue  eyes  and  light-brown  hair,  Winifred's  small  mouth 
and  moulded  nose,  Winifred's  insipid  smile  and  bashful  blush, 
were  cheap  as  dirt  in  the  matrimonial  lottery.  She  had  but 
a  doll-like,  Lowther  Arcade  styles  of  prettines.  Maidenly  as 
she  looked,  one  twist  more  of  her  nose,  one  shade  lighter 
in  her  hair,  and  she  would  become  simply  bar-maidenly. 
But  Elsie's  strong  and  powerful,  earnest  face,  with  its  serious 
lips  and  its  long  black  eyelashes,  its  profound  pathos  and  its 
womanly  dignity,  its  very  irregularity  and  faultiness  of  outline, 
pleased  him  ten  thousand  times  more  than  all  your  baby-faced 
beauties  of  the  conventional,  stereotyped,  ballroom  pattern. 
He  looked  at  her  long  and  sighed  often.  Must  he  really  break 
her  heart  for  her?  At  last  he  could  restrain  that  unruly 
member,  his  tongue,  no  longer.  "  Elsie,"  ho  cried,  eyeing  her 
full  in  a  genuine  outburst  of  spontaneous  admiration,  "  I  never 


SriUFFLINO  IT  OFF, 


I J 


in  my  life  saw  any  one  anywhere  one-half  bo  beautiful  and  gratie- 
ful  as  you  are !  " 

Elsie  pniilod  a  pleased  smile.  "And  yet,"  she  murmured, 
with  u  half  miiliciouH,  teasing  tone  of  irony,"  we're  not  engaged, 
Hugh,  after  all,  you  remember." 

ller  words  came  at  the  very  wrong  moment;  they  brought 
the  hot  blood  at  a  rush  into  Hugh's  elieck.  "  No,"  he  answered 
coldly,  with  a  sudden  revulsion  and  a  si»usinodie  effort ;  "  we're 
Lot  engaged — nor  (jver  will  be,  Klsie  ! " 

Klsie  turned  round  upon  him  with  sud(hm  abruptness  in 
blank  bewihUn-nient.  She  was  not  angry ;  she  was  not  even 
astonished;  she  simply  failed  altogetlier  to  take  in  his  meaning. 
It  had  always  seemed  to  lier  so  perfectly  natural,  so  simply 
obvious  that  she  and  Hugh  were  sooner  or  later  to  marry  one 
tinother;  she  had  always  regarded  Hugh's  fre(|Uent  reminiler 
that  they  were  not  engagt;d  as  sueh  a  mere  playful  warning 
against  too  mueh  pr(K',ii)itancy ;  she  liad  always  taken  it  for 
granted  so  fully  and  unreservedly  that  whenever  Hugh  was  rich 
enough  to  provide  for  a  wife  he  would  tell  her  so  ])lainly,  and 
carry  out  the  implied  engagement  between  them — that  this 
sudden  anntmncement  of  the  exact  o})posito  meant  to  her  ears 
less  than  nothing.  And  now,  when  Hugli  uttered  those  cruel, 
crushing,  annihilating  wcjrds,  "Nor  ever  will  be,  Elsie,"  she 
couldn't  possibly  take  in  their  reality  at  the  first  blush,  or  be- 
lieve in  her  own  heart  that  he  really  intended  anything  so 
wicked,  so  merciless,  so  unnatural. 

"  Nor  ever  will  be  !  "  she  cried,  incredulous.  "  Why,  Hugh, 
Hugh,  I — I  don't  understand  you." 

Huga  steeled  his  heart  with  a  vioh^nt  strain  to  answer  back 
in  one  curt,  killing  sentence  :  "I  mean  it,  E.sie;  I'm  going  to 
luarry  Winifred." 

Elsie  gazed  bade  a,t  him  in  speechless  surprise.  "Going  to 
marry  Winifred  V  "  sV>o  echoed  at  last  vaguely,  after  a  long  pause, 
as  if  the  words  ^^,;.  ,e\  3d  no  me  ining  to  her  mind.  "  Going  to 
marry  Win^fied?  J  u  marry  Winilred! — Hugh,  did  you  really 
and  truly  .s>.v'  y  'U    'ese  going  to  marry  Winifred?" 

"T  iH'op  >sed  t'j  ]t  this  morning,"  Hugh  answered  outright, 
with  a  >"'  >!:ii,f3:  tbo,  •.  and  a  glassy  eye;  "  and  she  accepted  me, 
Elsie ;  i.^  I  uit^iiri  .0  marry  her." 

"Hugh!" 

She  lettered  only  that  one  short  word,  in  a  tone  of  awful  and 
Tinspeakable  agonv  But  her  bent  brows,  her  pallid  face,  her 
husky  voice,  her  startled  attitude,  said  more  than  a  thousand 
words,  however  wild,  could  possibly  have  said  for  her.  She 
took  it  in  dimly  and  imperfectly  now ;  she  began  to  grasp  what 
Hugh  was  talking  about;  but  as  yet  she  could  not  understand 
to  the  full  all  the  manV  profound  and  unfathoraed  infamy.    She 


i 


re 


THIS   MORTAL   COIL. 


looked  at  him  feebly  for  some  word  of  explanation.  Surely  he 
must  have  ssome  deep  and  subtle  reason  of  his  own  for  this 
astonishing  act  and  fact  of  furtive  treachery.  Some  horrible 
combination  of  adverse  circumstances,  about  which  she  knew 
and  could  know  nothing,  must  have  driven  him  against  his  will 
to  this  incrtdiblo  solution  of  an  insoluble  problem.  He  con  Id 
not  of  his  own  mere  motion  have  proposed  to  Winifred.  She 
looked  at  him  hard :  he  quailed  before  her  scrutiny. 

*'I  love  you,  Elsie,"  he  burst  out  with  an  irresistible  impulse 
at  last,  as  she  gazed  througli  and  through  him  from  her  long 
black  lashes. 

Elsie  laid  her  hard  on  his  shoulder  blindly.  "You  love  me," 
she  murmurcfl.    "  Hugh,  Huuh,  you  still  love  me  ?  " 

"  I  always  loved  you,  Klsie,"  Hugh  answered  bitterly  with  a 
sudden  pang  of  abject  lemortse ;  "and  as  long  as  I  live  1  shall 
always  love  you." 

"  And  yet — you  are  going  to  marry  Winifred  1 " 

"  Elsie  1     We  were  .  ever,  never  engaged." 

She  turned  round  upon  him  fiercely  with  a  burst  of  horror. 
He,  to  take  refuge  in  tliat  hollow  excuse!  "  Nev,  x  engaged ! " 
she  cried,  aghast.  "You  mean  it,  Hugh? — you  mean  that 
mockery  ?— And  I,  who  would  have  given  uj)  my  life  for  love  of 
you!" 

He  tried  to  assume  a  calm  judicial  tone.  "  Let  us  be  reason- 
able, Elsie,"  he  said,  with  an  attempt  at  Ciifce,  "  and  talk  this 
matter  over  without  sentiment  or  hysterics.  You  knew  very 
well  I  was  too  poor  1o  marry;  you  knew  I  always  said  we  were 
only  cousins ;  you  knew  I  had  my  way  in  life  to  make.  You 
could  never  have  thought  I  really  and  seriously  dreamt  of 
marrying  you !  " 

Elsie  looked  up  at  him  with  a  scared  white  face.  That  Hugh 
should  descend  to  such  transpuren.t  futilities !  "  This  is  all  new 
to  me,"  she  moaned  out  in  a  dazed  voice.  "All,  all— quite, 
quite  new  to  me." 

"But,  Elsie,  I  have  said  it  over  and  over  a  thousand  times 
bifore." 

She  gazed  back  at  him  like  a  stone.  "  Ah,  yes ;  but  till  to- 
day," she  murmured  slowly,  "  you  never,  never,  never  meant  it." 

He  sat  down,  unmanned,  on  the  grass  by  the  bank.  She 
•seated  herself  by  his  side,  mechanically  as  it  were,  with  her 
hand  on  his  arm,  and  looked  straight  in  front  of  her  with  a 
vacant  stare  at  the  angry  water.  It  was  growing  dark.  The 
shore  was  dark,  and  the  sea,  and  the  river.  Everything  was 
dark  and  black  and  gloomy  around  her.  She  laid  his  hand  one 
moment  in  her  own.  "  Hugh ! "  she  cried,  turning  towards  him 
with  appealing  pathos,  "  you  don't  mean  it  now :  you  will  never 
mean  it.    You're  only  saying  it  to  try  and  prove  me.    Tell  me 


SHUFFLING  IT  OFF. 


77 


it's  that.    You've  yourself  still.    0  Ilugli,  my  darliuij,  you  cfin 
never  mean  it !  " 

Her  words  burnt  into  his  brain  like  liquid  fire;  and  the  better 
self  within  him  groaned  and  faltered ;  but  he  crushed  it  down 
with  an  iron  heel.  The  demon  of  avarice  held  his  sordid  soul. 
*'  My  child,"  he  said,  with  a  tender  inflection  in  his  voice  as  ho 
said  it,  "we  must  understand  one  another.  I  do  seriously 
intend  to  marry  Winifred  Meysey." 

"Why?" 

There  was  a  terrible  depth  of  suppressed  earnestness  in  that 
sharp  short  why,  wrung  out  of  her  by  anguish,  as  of  a  woman 
who  asks  the  reason  of  her  death-warrant  Hugh  Massinger 
answered  it  slowly  ancl  awkwardly  with  cumbrous,  round-about, 
iielf-exculpating  verbosity.  As  for  Elsie,  she  sat  like  a  statue 
aiifi  listened:  rigid  and  immovable,  she  sat  there  still;  while 
Hugh,  for  the  very  first  time  in  her  whole  experience,  revealed 
the  actual  man  ho  really  was  before  her  appalled  and  horrified 
and  speechless  presence.  He  talked  of  his  position,  his  prospects, 
his  abilities.  He  talked  of  jourualism.,  of  the  bur,  of  promotion. 
He  talked  of  literature,  of  poetry,  of  fame.  He  talked  of  money, 
and  its  absolute  need  to  man  and  woman  in  these  latter  days 
of  ours.  He  talked  of  Winifred,  of  Whitestraud,  and  of  the 
Meysey  manor-house.  "  It'll  be  best  in  the  end  for  us  both,  you 
know,  Elsie,"  he  said  argumentatively,  in  his  foolish  rigmarohj, 
mistaking  her  silence  for  something  like  unwilling  acquiescence. 
"  Of  course  I  shall  still  be  very  fond  of  you,  as  I've  always  been  fond 
of  you — like  a  cousin  only — and  I'll  be  a  brother  to  you  now  as 
long  as  I  live ;  and  when  Winifred  and  I  are  really  married,  and 
I  live  here  at  Whitestrand,  I  shall  be  able  to  do  a  great  deal 
more  for  you,  and  help  you  by  every  means  in  my  power,  and 
introduce  you  freely  into  our  own  circle,  on  difierent  terms,  you 
know,  where  you'll  have  chances  of  meeting — well,  suitable 
persons.  You  must  see  yourself  it's  the  best  thing  for  us  both. 
Tlie  idea  of  two  penniless  people  like  you  and  me  marrying  ouo 
another  in  the  present  state  of  society  is  simply  ridiculous." 

She  heard  him  out  to  the  bitter  end,  revealing  the  naked 
deformity  of  his  inmost  nature,  though  her  brain  reeled  at  it, 
without  one  passing  word  of  reproach  or  dissent.  Then  sho 
said  in  an  icy  tone  of  utter  horror:  "  Huglil" 

"  Yes,  Elsie." 

"Is  that  all?" 

"Tliatisall." 

"  And  yov,  mean  it  V  " 

"  I  mean  it." 

"  Oh,  for  heaven's  sake,  before  you  kill  me  outright,  Hugh, 
Hugh!  is  it  really  true";     Are  you  really  like  that?    Do  you 
really  mean  it?" 
0 


if     •!; 

!lF, 


i  I 


:h 


I 


ii:  i  i 


W  Tins  MORTAL   COIL. 

"  I  really  mean  to  nicarry  Winifred." 

Elsie  clasped  her  two  hands  on  either  side  of  her  head,  as  if 
to  hold  it  together  from  bursting  with  her  agony.  "  Hugh,"  she 
cried,  "  it's  foolish,  I  know,  but  I  ask  you  once  more,  before  it's 
too  late,  in  siglit  of  heaven,  I  ask  you  solemnly,  are  you  seriously 
in  earnest?  Is  that  what  you're  made  of?  Are  you  going  to 
desert  me  ?    To  desert  and  betray  me  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  Avhat  you  mean,"  Hugh  answered  stonily,  rising 
as  if  to  go — for  he  could  stand  it  no  longer.  "I've  never  been 
engaged  to  you.  I  always  told  you  so.  I  owe  you  nothing. 
And  now  1  mean  to  marry  Winifred." 

With  a  cry  of  agony,  she  burst  wildly  away  from  him.  She 
saw  it  all  now ;  she  understood  to  the  full  the  cruelty  and  base- 
Koss  of  the  man's  innermost  underlying  nature.  Fair  outside; 
but  false,  false,  false  to  the  core!  Yet  even  so,  she  could 
scarcely  believe  it.  The  faith  of  a  lifetime  fonp-ht  hard  for  life 
in  her.  He,  that  Hugh  she  had  so  loved  and  trusted — he,  the 
one  Hugh  in  all  the  universe — he  to  cast  her  off  with  such 
callous  seltishness  1  He  to  turn  upon  her  now  with  his 
empty  phrases !  He  to  sell  and  betray  her  for  a  Winifred  and 
a  manor-house!  Oh,  the  guilt  and  sin  of  it!  Her  head  reeled 
and  swam  round  deliriously.  She  hardly  knew  what  she  felt  or 
did.  Mad  with  agony,  love,  and  terror,  she  rushed  away  head- 
long from  his  polluted  presence— not  from  Hugh,  but  from  this 
fallen  idol.  Ho  saw  her  white  dress  disappearing  fast  through 
the  deep  gloom  in  the  direction  of  the  poplar-tree,  and  he  groj  )cd 
his  way  after  her,  almost  as  mad  as  herself,  struck  dumb  Avith 
remorse  and  awe  and  shame  at  the  ruin  he  had  visibly  and 
instantly  wrought  in  the  fabric  of  that  trustful  girl's  whole 
being. 

One  moment  she  flod  and  stumbled  in  the  dark  along  the 
grassy  path  toward  the  roots  of  the  poplar.  Then  he  caught  a 
glimpse  of  her  for  a  second,  dimly  silhouetted  in  the  faint  star- 
light, a  wan  white  figure  with  outstretched  arms  against  the 
black  horizon.  She  was  poising,  irresolute,  on  the  gnpcled 
roots.  It  was  but  for  tlie  twinkling  of  an  eye  that  he  sav,  her; 
next  instant,  a  splash,  a  gurgle,  a  shriek  of  terror,  and  he  beheld 
her  borne  wildly  away,  a  lielj)le.ss  burden,  by  that  fierce  current 
towards  the  breakers  that  glistened  white  and  roared  hoarfcely 
in  their  savage  joy  on  the  bar  of  the  river. 

In  her  agony  of  disgrace,  she  had  fallen,  rather  than  thrown 
herself  in.  As  she  stood  there,  undecided,  on  the  slippery  roots, 
with  all  her  soul  burning  within  her,  her  head  swimming  and 
her  eyes  dim,  a  bruised,  humiliated,  hopeless  creature,  she  had 
missed  her  foothold  on  the  smooth  worn  stump,  slimy  with 
lichens,  and  raising  her  hands  as  if  to  balance  herself,  had 
f'lrown  herself  forward,  half  wittingly,  half  unconsciously,  on 


SINK  OB  SWIMf 


79 


iho  tender  mercies  of  the  rnshinp;  stream.  When  she  returned 
tor  a  moment,  a  little  later,  to  life  and  thought,  it  was  with  a 
swirling  sense  of  many  waters,  eddying  and  seething  in  mad 
conflict  round  her  faint  numb  form.  Strange  roaring  noises 
thundered  in  her  ear.  A  choking  sensation  made  her  gasp  for 
breath.  What  she  drank  in  with  her  .t'.ipp  was  not  air,  but 
water— salt,  brackish  water,  an  overwhelming  flood  of  it.  Then 
she  sank  again,  and  was  dimly  aware  of  the  cold  chill  ocean 
floating  around  her  on  every  side.  She  took  a  deep  gulp.,  and 
with  it  sighed  out  her  sense  of  life  and  action.  Hugh  was  lost 
to  her,  and  it  was  all  over.  She  could  die  now.  She  had 
nothing  to  live  for.  There  was  no  Hugh;  and  she  had  not 
killed  herself. 

Those  two  dim  thoughts  were  the  last  she  knew  as  her  eyes 
closed  in  the  rushing  current:  there  had  never  b^ea  a  Hugh ; 
and  she  had  ialleu  in  by  accident. 


CHAPTEE  XI. 

SINK   OR  SWIM? 

Hugh  was  selfish,  heartless,  and  unscrnpnlons ;  but  he  was  not 
physically  a  coward,  a  cur,  or  a  palterer.  VVitliout  one  second's 
thought,  he  rushed  wildly  down  to  the  water's  edge,  and 
balancing  himself  for  a  plunge,  with  his  hands  above  his  head, 
on  the  roots  of  the  big  tree,  he  dived  boldly  into  that  wild 
current,  against  whose  terrific  force  he  had  once  already 
struggled  so  vainly  on  the  morning  of  his  first  arrival  at 
Whitestrand.  Elsie  had  had  but  a  few  seconds'  start  of  him  ; 
with  his  powerful  &rms  to  aid  him  in  the  quest,  he  must  surely 
overtake  and  save  her  before  she  could  diown,  even  in  that 
mad  and  swirling  tidal  torrent.  He  flung  himself  (m  the  water 
with  all  his  force,  and  goaded  by  remorse,  pity,  and  love — lor, 
after  all,  he  loved  her,  he  loved  her — he  drew  unwonted  strength 
from  the  internal  fires,  as  he  pushed  back  the  fierce  flood  on 
either  side  with  arms  and  thews  of  feverish  energy.  At  each 
strong  push,  he  moved  forward  apace  with  the  gliding  current, 
and  in  the  course  of  a  few  stout  strokes  he  was  already  many 
yards  on  his  way  seaward  from  the  point  at  which  ho  had 
originally  started.  But  his  boots  and  clothes  clogged  his 
movements  terribly,  and  his  sleeves  in  particular  so  impeded 
Ids  arms  that  ho  could  hardly  use  them  to  any  sensible 
advantage.  He  felt  conscious  at  once  that,  under  such 
hampering  conditioiiS,  it  would  be  impi)ssible  to  swim  for 
many  minutes  at  a  stretch.    He  must  tind  Klsie  and  save 


9^  THIS  MORTAL  COIL. 

lier  aim  )st  iiumcdiately,  or  both  must  go  dawn  and  drown 
toj^etlier. 

He  wanted  nothing  more  than  to  drown  with  her  now. 
*'  Elsie,  Elsie,  my  darling  Elsio !  "  he  cried  aloud  on  the  top  of 
the  wave.  To  lose  Elsie  was  to  lose  everything.  The  pea  was 
running  high  as  he  neared  the  bar,  and  Elsie  had  disappeared 
as  if  by  magic.  Even  in  that  dark  black  water  on  that  moon- 
less night  he  wondered  he  couldn't  catch  a  single  glimpse  of  her 
white  dress  by  the  reflected  starlight.  But  the  truth  was,  the 
current  had  sucked  her  under — sucked  her  under  wildly  with 
its  irresistible  force,  only  to  fling  her  up  again,  a  senseless  bur- 
den, where  sea  and  river  met  at  last  in  tierce  conflict  among  the 
roaring  breakers  that  danced  and  shivered  upcm  the  shallow  bar. 

He  swam  about  blindly,  looking  round  him  on  every  side 
through  the  thick  darkness  with  eager  eyes  for  some  glimpse  of 
Elsie's  white  dress  in  a  stray  gleam  of  starlight;  but  he  saw 
not  a  trace  of  her  presence  anywhere.  Groping  and  feeling 
his  way  still  with  numbed  limbs,  that  grew  weary  and  stiff  with 
tiie  frantic  effort,  he  battled  on  through  the  gurgling  eddy  till 
ho  reached  the  breakers  on  tii3  bar  itself.  There,  his  strength 
proved  of  no  avail — he  might  as  well  have  tried  to  stem 
Niagara.  The  great  waves,  rolling  their  serried  line  against 
tlie  stream  from  the  land,  caught  him  and  twisted  him  about 
resistlessly,  raising  him  now  aloft  on  their  foaming  crest,  dashing 
him  now  down  deep  in  their  hollow  trough,  and  then  flinging 
him  back  again  over  some  great  curling  mountain  of  water  far 
on  to  the  current  from  which  he  had  just  emerged  with  his 
stout  endeavour.  For  ten  minutes  or  more  lie  struggled  madly 
against  those  titanic  enemies ;  then  his  courage  and  his  muscle 
failed  together,  and  he  gave  up  the  unequal  contest  out  of  sheer 
fatigue  and  pliysical  inability  to  continue  it  longer.  It  was 
indeed  an  awful  and  appalling  situation.  Alone  there  in  the 
dark,  whirled  about  by  a  current  that  no  man  could  stem,  and 
confronted  with  a  rearing  wall  of  water  that  no  man  could  face, 
he  threw  himself  wearily  back  for  a  moment  at  full  length,  and 
looked  up  in  his  anguish  from  his  floating  couch  to  the  cold 
stars  overhead,  whose  faint  light  the  spray  every  instant  hid 
from  his  sight  as  it  showered  over  him  from  the  curling  crests 
of  the  great  billows  beyond  him.  And  it  'vas  to  this  that  he 
had  driven  poor  innocent,  trustful,  wronged  Elsie!  the  one 
woman  he  had  ever  truly  loved!  the  one  woman  who,  with  all 
the  force  of  a  profound  nature — prol'ounder  ten  thousand  times 
than  his  own — had  truly  loved  him  I 

Elsie  was  tossing  up  and  down  there  just  as  hopelessly  now., 
no  doubt.  But  Elsie  had  no  pangs  of  conscience  added  to 
torment  her.     She  had  only  a  broken  heart  to  reckon  with. 

lie  let  himself  (loat  idly  where  wind  and  waves  might  happen 


m 


SINK  on  SWIMf  j^ 

to  bear  him.  Tlmro  was  no  help  for  it:  he  oonlil  swim  no 
farther.  It  was  all  over,  all  over  now.  Elsie  v  as  lost,  and  for 
all  the  rest  lie  cuied  tliat  moment  less  than  notliing.  Winifred! 
lie  scorned  and  hated  her  very  I'nine.  He  mij^ht  drown  at  his 
ease,  for  anything  he  wonid  e^or  do  himself  to  prevent  it.  The 
waves  broke  over  him  a<rain  and  agaii^.  He  let  thera  burst 
across  his  face  or  limbs,  and  floated  on,  without  endeavouring 
to  swim  or  guide  himself  at  ;ill.  Would  he  never  sink?  Was 
he  to  float  and  float  and  float  like  this  to  all  eternity  ? 

lioar — roar — roar  on  the  bar,  cacli  roar  growing  fairter  and 
fainter  in  his  ears.  Clearly  receding,  receding  still.  The 
current  was  carrying  liim  away  from  it  now,  and  whirlin,Tf  him 
along  in  a  back  eddy,  that  set  strongly  south-wcsiward  towards 
the  dike    "  t'le  salt  marshes. 

He  lef  .imself  drift  wherever  it  might  take  him.  It  took 
}iim  back,  back,  back,  steadily,  till  he  saw  the  white  crest  of 
the  breakers  on  the  ridge  extend  like  a  long  gray  line  in  the 
dim  distance  upon  the  sea  beyond  him.  He  was  well  into  safer 
water  by  tV.is  time  :  tlie  estuary  was  only  very  rough  here.  Ho 
might  swim  if  he  choso.  Eut  he  did  not  choose.  He  cared 
nothing  for  life,  since  Elsie  war,  gone.  In  a  sudden  revulsion  of 
wild  desjiair,  a  frantic  burst  of  hopeless  yearning,  he  knew,  for 
the  fir>4  time  in  his  whole  life,  now  it  was  too  late,  how  truly 
and  deeply  and  intensely  he  had  loved  her.  As  truly  and 
deeply  as  he  was  capalile  of  loving  anybody  or  anything  on 
enrth  except  himself.  And  that,  after  all,  was  nothing  much  to 
boast  of. 

Still,  it  was  enough  to  overwhelm  him  for  the  moment  with 
agonies  of  remorse  and  regret  and  pity,  and  to  make  him  long 
just  then  and  tliere  for  instant  death,  as  the  easiest  escape  from 
iiis  own  angry  and  accusing  conscience.  He  wanted  to  die;  ho 
yearned  and  prayrd  for  it.  l^nt  death  obstinately  refused  to 
come  to  his  aid.  lie  turned  himself  round  on  his  face  now,  and 
striking  out  just  once  with  his  wearied  thighs,  gazed  away 
blankly  towards  the  foam  on  the  bar,  where  Elsie's  body  must 
still  be  tossing  in  a  horrible  ghastly  dance  of  death  among  the 
careering  breakers. 

As  he  looked,  a  gleam  of  ruddy  light  showed  for  a  second 
from  a  masthead  just  beyond  the  bar.  A  smack — a  smin-k! 
coming  in  to  the  river!  The  siglit  refilled  him  with  a  faint 
fresh  hoiie.  That  hope  was  too  like  despair;  but  still  it  was 
something.  He  swam  out  once  more  with  the  spasmodic 
energy  of  utter  despondency.  The  smack  might  still  be  in  time 
to  save  Elsie  !  He  would  make  his  way  out  to  it,  though  it  ran 
liiradown;  if  it  ran  him  down,  so  mncli  the  better !  he  would 
shout  aloud  at  the  top  of  his  voice,  to  outroar  the  breakers :  "  A 
lady  is  drowning !    8avelier! — save  her!" 


11 1 

1 

1 

1 

1 

i'l 

M 

Si.. 

Hi 


■i      t 


f  1 


82 


THIS  MORTAL  COIL. 


m 


He  struck  ont  ag:ain  with  raarl  hn''^  through  tlie  back 
current.  This  time,  he  liad  to  fight  agai  ^t  it  witli  Ins  wearied 
limbs,  and  to  plough  his  way  by  proa.^ious  eflbrts.  The 
current  was  stronger,  now  he  came  to  iiioe  it,  than  he  had  at 
all  imagined  when  he  merely  let  himself  drift  on  its  surface. 
Battling  with  all  his  might  against  the  fierce  sv/irls,  he  hardly 
seemed  to  make  any  headway  at  all  through  the  angry  water. 
His  strength  was  almost  all  used  up  now ;  he  could  sviarcely  last 
till  he  reached  the  smack. — Great  heavens,  what  was  ihis  ?  She 
was  turning!— she  was  turning!  The  surf  was  too  much  for 
her  timbers  to  endure.  She  couldn't  make  the  mouth  of  the 
creek.  She  was  luffing  seaward  again,  and  it  was  all  up,  all  up 
with  Elsie. 

It  was  Warren  Belfs  yawl,  bearing  down  from  Lowestoft,  and 
trying  for  the  first  time  to  enter  the  river  through  the  wall  of 
breakers. 

Oh,  if  only  he  bad  lain  right  in  her  path  just  then,  as  she 
rode  over  the  waves,  that  she  might  run  him  down  and  sink 
him  for  ever,  with  liis  weight  of  infamy,  beneath  those  curling 
billows !  He  could  never  endrre  to  go  ashore  again — and  to  feel 
that  he  had  virtually  murdered  Elsie. 

Elsie,  Elsie,  poor  murdorod  Elsie !  He  should  hate  to  \vfQ, 
now  he  had  muruered  Elsie ! 

And  then,  as  he  battled  still  fiercely  with  the  tide,  in  a  flash 
of  his  nerves,  he  felt  suddenly  a  wild  spasm  of  pain  seize  on 
both  his  thighs,  and  an  utter  disablement  affect  his  entire 
faculty  of  bodily  motion.  It  was  a  paroxysm  of  cramp— over- 
whelming— inexpressible— and  it  left  him  in  one  second  power- 
less to  move  or  tliink  or  act  or  plan,  a  mere  dead  log,  incapable 
of  anything  but  a  cry  of  pain,  and  hcl^jless  as  a  baby  iu-the 
midst  of  that  cruel  and  unheeding  eddy. 

Ho  flung  himself  I>ack  for  dead  on  the  water  once  more.  A 
choking  sensation  seized  holil  of  his  senses.  The  sea  was  xjouriug 
in  at  his  nostrils  and  his  ears.  He  knew  ho  was  going,  and  he 
was  glad  to  know  it.  He  would  rather  die  than  live  with  that 
burden  of  guilt  upon  his  black  soul.  The  waves  washed  over 
his  face  in  serried  ranks.  He  didn't  mind;  he  didn't  struggle ; 
he  didn't  try  for  one  instant  to  save  himself.  He  floated  on, 
unconscious  at  last,  back,  slowly  back,  towards  the  bank  of 
the  salt  marsh. 

When  Hugh  Massinger  next  know  anything,  he  was  dimly 
conscious  of  lying  at  luU  length  on  a  very  cold  bed,  and  fum- 
bling with  his  fingers  to  pull  the ! .  J- clothes  closer  around  him. 
But  there  were  no  bed-clothes,  and  everything  about  was 
soaking  we*-.  He  must  be  stretched  in  a  pool  of  water,  ho 
thought— so  damp  it  was  all  round  to  the  touch — with  a  soft 


^■i   \. 


H  B-^'*' 


!;r:  ■ 


SINK  OR  SlVIMf 


83 


iimttreFB  or  conch  spread  beneath  him.  He  put  out  his  hands 
to  feel  the  mattress  Ho  came  upon  mud,  mud,  deep  layers 
of  mud ;  all  cold  and  slimy  in  the  dusk  of  night.  And  then 
with  a  h&ah  he  remembered  all — Elsie  dead!  Elsie  drowned! 
— and  knew  he  was  stranded  by  the  ebbing  tide  on  the  edge 
of  the  embankment.  No  hope  of  helping  Elsie  now.  With  a 
violent  effort,  he  rou  Jcd  himself  to  consciousness,  and  crawled 
feebly  on  his  knees  Ij  the  firm  ground.  It  was  diflBcult  work, 
floundering  through  the  mud,  with  his  numb  limbs;  but  he 
floundered  on,  upon  hands  and  feet,  till  he  reached  the  shore, 
and  stood  at  last,  dripping  with  brine  and  crusted  with  soft 
slimy  tidal  ooze,  on  tlie  broad  bank  of  the  moated  dike  that 
htimmed  in  the  salt  marshes  from  the  mud-bank  of  the  estuary. 
It  was  still  dark  night,  but  the  moon  had  risen.  He  could 
hardly  say  what  the  time  might  be,  for  his  watch  bad  stopped,  of 
course,  by  immersion  in  the  water;  but  he  roughly  guessed,  by 
the  look  of  the  ^*^nrs,  it  was  somewhere  about  half-past  ten.  We 
have  a  vague  sense  of  the  lapse  of  time  even  during  sleep  or 
other  unconscious  states;  and  Hugh  was  certain  he  couldn't 
have  been  floating  for  much  more  tiian  an  hour  or  thereabouts. 

He  gazed  around  him  vaguely  at  the  misty  meadows.  He  was 
a  mile  or  so  from  the  village  inn.  The  estuary,  with  its  acrid 
flats  of  mud,  lay  between  him  and  the  hard  at  Whitestrand. 
Sheets  of  white  surf  still  shimmered  dimly  on  the  bar  far  out  to 
sea.    And  Elsie  was  lost— lost  to  him  irrevocably. 

He  sut  down  and  pondered  on  the  bank  for  a  while.  Those 
five  minutes  were  the  turning-point  of  his  life.  What  should  he 
do  and  how  comport  himself  under  these  sudden  and  awful  and 
unexpected  circumstances  ?  Dazed  as  he  was,  he  saw  even  then 
the  full  horror  of  the  dilemma  that  hedged  him  in.  Awe  and 
shame  brought  him  back  with  a  rush  to  reason.  If  he  went 
home  and  told  the  whole  horrid  truth,  everybody  would  say 
lie  was  Elsie's  murderer.  Perhaps  they  would  even  suggest 
that  he  pushed  her  in — to  get  rid  of  her.  Ho  dared  not  tell 
it ;  ho  da/ed  not  face  it.  Should  he  fly  the  village — the  county 
—-the  country  ?— That  would  be  foolish  and  precipitate  indeed, 
not  to  say  wicked:  a  criminal  surrender.  All  was  not  lost, 
though  Elsie  was  lost  to  him.  In  his  calmer  mood,  no  longer 
heroic  with  the  throes  of  despondency,  sitting  shivering  there 
witii  cold  in  the  keen  breeze,  between  his  dripping  clothes,  upon 
the  bare  swept  bank,  he  said  to  himself  many  times  over  that 
all  was  not  lost;  he  might  still  go  back—and  marry  Winifred. 

Hideous — hoi-rible— ghastly — ^inhuman :  he  reckoned  even  so 
his  chances  with  Winifred. 

The  shrewd  wind  blew  chill  upon  his  wet  clothes.  It  bel- 
lowed and  roureii  with  hoarse  groans  round  the  stakes  on  the 
dike-sluices.    His  head  was  wiiirling  still  wit;:  asj)!iyxia  and 


.1 


I  I 


84 


THIS  MORTAL   COIL. 


Vfi'i 


numbness.  Ho  felt  hardly  in  n  condition  to  think  or  reason. 
But  this  was  a  crisis,  a  lifc-and-death  crisis.  Ho  must  pull 
himself  together  like  a  man,  and  work  it  all  out,  his  doubtful 
course  for  the  next  three  hours,  or  else  sink  for  ever  in  a  sea  of 
obloquy,  remembered  only  as  Elsie's  murderer.  Everything 
was  at  stake  for  him — live  or  die.  Should  ho  jump  once  more 
into  the  cold  wild  stream — or  go  homo  quietly  like  a  sensible 
man,  and  play  his  hand  out  to  marry  Winifred  i 

If  ho  meant  to  go,  he  miist  go  at  once.  It  was  no  use  to 
think  of  delaying  or  shilly-shallying.  By  cloven  oelocic,  the  inu 
would  bo  closed.  He  must  steal  in,  uuperceived,  by  the  oj^en 
French  windows  before  eleven,  if  he  intended  still  to  keep  the 
game  going.  But  ho  must  have  his  plan  of  action  definitely 
mapped  out  none  the  less  beforehand ;  and  to  m.ip  it  out,  he 
must  wait  a  moment  still;  he  must  sum  up  chances  in  this 
desperate  emergency. 

Life  is  a  calculus  of  varying  probabilities.  Was  it  likely  ho 
had  been  perceived  at  the  Hall  that  evening?  Did  anybody 
know  he  had  been  walking  with  Winifred  ? 

He  fancied  not — he  believed  not. — He  was  certain  not,  now  ho 
came  to  think  of  it.  Thank  heaven,  he  had  made  the  appoint- 
ment verbally.  If  he'd  written  a  note,  that  damning  evidence 
might  have  been  produced  against  him  at  the  coroner's  inquest. 
Inquest?  Unless  they  found  the  body — Elsie's  body — pah !  how 
horrible  to  think  of — but  still,  a  man  must  steel  himself  to  faco 
facts,  however  ghastly  and  however  horrible.  Unless  they  found 
the  body,  then,  there  would  be  no  inquest ;  and  if  only  things 
were  managed  well  and  cleverly,  there  needn't  even  be  any 
inquiry.  Unless  they  found  the  body — Elsie's  body — poor 
Elsie's  body,  whirled  about  by  the  waves! — But  they  would 
never  find  it — they  would  never  find  it.  The  current  had  sucked 
it  under  at  once,  and  carried  it  away  careering  madly  to  tho 
sea.  It  would  toss  and  whirl  on  tho  breakers  for  a  while,  and 
then  sink  unseen  to  the  fathomless  abysses  of  the  German 
Ocean. 

He  hated  himself  for  thinking  all  this— with  Elsie  drowned — 
or  not  yet  drowned  even— and  yet  ho  thought  it,  because  he  was 
not  man  enough  to  face  the  alternative. 

Had  Elsie  told  any  one  she  was  going  to  meet  him  ?  No;  she 
wouldn't  even  tell  Winifred  of  that,  he  was  sure.  She  met  hiiu 
there  often  by  appointment,  it  was  true,  but  always  quietly : 
they  kept  their  meetings  a  profound  secret  between  them. 

Had  any  one  seen  them  that  evening  together  ?  lie  couldn't 
remember  noticing  anybody. — How  shrill  the  wind  blew  through 
his  dripping  clothes.  It  cut  him  in  two;  and  his  head  reeled 
still. — No;  nobody,  nobody.  He  was  quite  safe  upon  that  score 
at  least.    Nobody  knew  he  was  out  with  Elyio. 


THE  FLAN  IN  EXECUTION. 


85 


Could  ho  go  back,  then,  nnd  kcop  it  all  quiet,  Rayinp;  n  jthing 
himself,  but  Icaviiig  tlic  world  to  form  its  own  conclusiouo?  A 
KUflden  thought  flashed  in  an  intuitive  moment  across  his  brain. 
A  Plan! — a  Plan!  How  happy!  A  Policy!  lie  sa^  his  way 
out  of  it  all  at  once.  He  could  set  everything  right  by  a  ^implo 
method.  Yos,  that  would  do.  It  was  bold,  but  not  risky.  Ho 
might  go  ]  ow:  the  scheme  for  the  future  was  all  matured. 
Nobody  need  ever  suspect  anything.  A  capital  idea!  Honour 
was  saved  ;  and  ho  might  still  go  back  and  marry  Winifred. 

Elsie  dead !  Elsie  drowned  1  The  world  lost,  and  his  life  a 
blank !    But  he  might  still  go  back  and  marry  Winifred. 

He  rose,  and  shook  himself  in  the  wind  like  a  dog.  The  Plan 
was  growing  more  definite  and  rountled  in  his  mind  each 
moment.  He  turned  his  face  slowly  towards  the  lights  at 
Whitestrand.  The  estuary  spread  between  him  and  them  with 
its  wide  mud-flats.  Cold  and  tired  as  he  was,  he  must  make  at 
all  speed  for  the  point  where  it  narrowed  into  the  running  stream 
near  Snado  meadows.  He  must  swim  the  river  there,  Avith  what 
legs  he  had  left,  and  cross  to  the  village.  There  was  no  time  to 
be  lost.  It  was  neck  or  nothing.  At  all  hazards,  he  must  do 
his  best  to  reach  the  inn  before  the  doors  were  shut  and  locked 
at  eleven. 

When  he  left  the  spot  where  he  had  been  tossed  ashore,  his 
idea  for  the  future  was  fully  worked  out.  He  ran  along  the 
bank  with  eager  haste  in  the  direction  of  Whitestrand.  Once 
only  did  he  turn  and  look  behind  him.  A  ship's  light  gleamed 
feebly  in  the  oiling  across  the  angry  sea.  She  was  beating  up 
against  a  head  wind  to  cutch  the  breeze  outside  towards  Lowes- 
toft or  Yarmoutli. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

TOE  PLAN  IN  EXECUTION. 

Hugh  hurried  along  tlio  dike  that  bounded  Ihe  salt-marsh 
meadows  seaward,  till  he  reached  the  point  in  his  march  up 
where  the  river  narrowed  abruptly  into  a  mere  third-class 
upland  stream.  There  he  jumped  in,  and  swam  across,  as  well 
as  he  was  able  in  the  cold  dark  water,  to  the  opposite  bank. 
Once  over,  he  had  still  to  straggle  as  best  he  might  through  two 
or  three  swami)y  fields,  and  to  climb  a  thickset  hedge  or  so- 
regular  bullfinches — before  he  fairly  gained  the  belated  littlo 
high-road.  His  head  swam.  Wet  and  cold  and  miperablo  with- 
out, he  was  torn  within  by  conflicting  passions ;  but  he  walked 
firm  and  erect  now  along  the  winding  road  in  the  deep  gloom, 
fortunately  never  meeting  a  soul  in  the  half-mile  or  so  of  lonely 


ill 


III 


ii 


;|.  S 


1 11 


^'if 


TUIS  MORTAL   COIL. 


W[-- 


way  tliat  lay  between  the  point  where  ho  had  crossed  tlio  stream 
and  the  Fislioniian's  Kest  by  the  bunk  at  Whitcstrand.  He  was 
glad  of  that,  for  it  was  his  cue  now  to  escape  observation.  In 
his  own  mind,  he  felt  himself  a  murderer;  and  every  flicker  of 
the  wind  among  the  honeysuckle  in  the  hedge,  every  rustle  of 
the  leaves  on  the  trees  overhead,  every  splash  of  the  waves  upon 
the  distant  shore,  made  his  heart  flutter,  and  his  breath  stop 
fihort  in  response,  though  he  gave  no  outer  sign  of  fear  or  com- 
punction in  his  even  tread  "ud  erect  bearing — the  oven  tread 
and  erect  bearing  of  a  proud,  self-confident,  English  gentleman. 

How  lucky  that  his  rooms  at  the  inn  happened  to  be  placed 
on  the  ground-floor,  and  that  they  opened  by  French  windows 
down  to  the  ground  on  to  the  little  garden  I  How  lucky,  too, 
that  they  lay  on  the  hither  side  of  the  door  and  the  taproom, 
where  men  were  sitting  late  over  their  mug  of  beer,  singing  and 
rollicking  in  vulgar  mirth  with  their  loud  half-Danish,  East- 
Anglian  merriment!  He  stole  through  the  garden  on  tiptoe, 
unperceived,  and  glided  like  a  ghost  into  the  tiny  sitting-voom. 
Tlio  lamp  burned  brightly  on  the  parlour  table,  as  it  had  burnt 
all  evening,  in  readiness  for  his  arrival.  He  slipped  quietly,  on 
tiptoe  still,  into  the  bedroom  behind,  tossed  off  a  stiff  glassful  of 
braudy-and-water  cold,  and  changed  his  clothes  from  head  to 
foot  with  as  much  speed  and  noiselessness  as  circumstances  per- 
mitted. Then,  treading  more  easily,  he  went  out  once  more  with 
a  bold  front  into  the  other  room,  flung  himself  down  at  his  ease 
in  the  big  armchair,  took  up  a  book,  pretending  to  read,  and 
rang  the  bell  with  ostentatious  clamour  for  the  good  landlady. 
His  plan  was  mature ;  he  would  proceed  to  put  it  into  execution. 

The  landlady,  a  plentiful  boUy  of  about  fifty,  came  in  with 
evident  surprise  and  hesitation.  "  Lord  a  mussy,  sar,"  she  cried 
aloud  in  a  sliglit  flurry,  "I  thowt  yow  wor  out;  an'  them  min 
a-singin'  and  a-bellerin'  like  that  oover  there  in  tlie  bar!  St.in- 
naway'll  be  some  riled  when  he  find  yow're  come  in  an'  all  that 
noise  gooin'  on  in  the  house !  *Teen't  respectable.  But  we  dint 
hear  ye.  I  hoop  yow'll  'scuse  'em :  they're  oonly  the  fishermen 
from  Snade,  enjoyin'  theirselves  in  the  cool  of  the  evenin'." 

Hugh  made  a  manful  effort  to  appear  unconcerned.  "  I  came 
in  an  hour  ago  or  more,"  he  replied,  smiling — a  sugar-of-lead 
smile. — "But,  pray  don't  interfere  with  these  good  people's 
merriment  for  worlds,  I  beg  of  you.  I  should  be  sorry,  indeed, 
if  I  thought  I  put  a  stopper  upon  anybody's  innocent  amusement 
anywhere.  I  don't  want  to  be  considered  a  regular  kill-joy. — I 
rang  the  bell,  Mrs.  Stannaway,  for  a  bottle  of  seltzer." 

It  was  a  simple  way  of  lettmg  them  know  he  was  really  there ; 
and  though  the  lie  about  the  length  of  time  he  had  been  home 
vas  a  fairly  audacious  one— for  somebody  might  have  come  in 
nieanwhile  to  trim  the  lamp,  or  look  if  he  was  about,  and  so 


THE  PLAN  JM  EXECUTION. 


87 


detect  the  falsohoorl — ho  paw  at  onco,  by  Mrs.  Stannaway'R  face 
that  it  passed  muster  witliout  rousing?  the  slf'rlite.st  suspicion. 

"  Why,  William,"  he  lieard  lier  say  when  ahe  went  out,  in  a 
hushed  voice  to  her  husband  in  the  taproom,  **  Mr.  Massinper 
hev  bin  in  hiK  own  room  the  whool  time  while  tliem  chaps  liov 
bin  a-shoutin'  au'  swoarin'  suffin  frightful  out  here,  more  like 
heathen  tlian  human  critters." 

Then,  they  hadn't  notir-ed  his  absence,  at  any  m  ♦« !  Tliat  was 
well.  He  was  so  far  satV.  If  the  rest  of  liis  plan  held  water 
equally,  all  might  yet  come  right— and  he  might  yot  succeed  in 
marrying  Winifred. 

To  save  appunranoes — and  marry  Winifred!  With  Elsie  still 
tossing  on  the  breakers  of  the  bar,  ho  had  it  in  his  mind  to  marry 
Winifred! 

When  Mrs.  Stannaway  brought  in  the  seltzer,  Hn^h  Massinper 
merely  looked  up  from  the  book  he  was  reading  with  a  pleasant 
no  I  and  a  murmured  "  Tliank  you."  'Twas  the  most  he  dared. 
His  teeth  chattered  so  he  could  hardly  trust  himself  to  speak 
any  further;  but  he  tried  with  an  ap,onizcd  ctFort  within  to  look 
as  comfortal>le  under  the  circumstauoeH  as  possible.  As  soon  as 
she  was  gone,  however,  he  opened  the  seltzer,  and  pouring  him- 
self out  a  second  strong  dose  of  brandy,  tossed  it  off  at  a  gulp, 
almost  neat,  to  steady  his  nerves  for  serious  business.  Then  he 
opined  his  blotting-book,  with  a  furtive  glance  to  right  and  left, 
and  took  out  a  few  stray  sheets  of  paper — to  write  a  letter.  The 
first  sheet  had  some  stanzas  of  verse  scribbled  loosely  upon  it, 
with  many  corrections.  Hugh's  eyes  unconsciously  fell  upon 
one  of  them.  It  read  to  him  just  then  like  an  act  of  accusation. 
They  were  some  simple  lines  describing  st)me  ideal  Utopian 
world — a  dream  of  the  iuture — and  the  stanza  on  which  his 
glance  had  lighted  so  carelessly  ran  thus — 

**Lut,  fairer  and  purer  still. 

True  love  is  there  to  bohold; 
And  none  may  fetter  his  will 

With  law  or  with  fjjold : 
And  none  may  Bullj'  his  wings 

^Vith  the  deadly  taint  of  lust  j 
But  freest  of  all  free  things 

lie  soars  from  the  dust." 

"With  law  or  with  gold,"  indeed!  Fool!  Idiot!  Jacka- 
napes! He  crumpled  the  versos  angrily  in  his  hand  as  he 
looked,  and  flung  them  with  clenched  teeth  into  the  empty  fire- 
place. His  own  words  rose  up  in  solemn  judgment  against  him, 
and  condemned  him  remorselessly  by  anticipation.  He  had 
sold  Elsie  for  Winifred's  gold,  and  the  Nemesis  of  his  crime  was 
already  pursuing  him  like  a  deadly  phantom  through  all  his 
waking  moments. 


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23  WBT  MAM  STMIT 

WnS7lll,N.Y.  USSO 
(716)  t73-4S03 


^ 


■f 


^ 


88 


Tins  MORTAL  COIL. 


,  With  a  sot  cold  look  on  his  handsome  dark  face,  he  selected 
anotlier  sheet  of  clean  white  note-paper  from  the  morocco-covered 
blotting-book,  and  then  pulled  a  bundle  of  old,  worn-edged 
letters  from  his  breast-pockot — a  bundle  of  letters  in  a  girl's 
handwriting,  secured  by  an  elastic  india-rnbber  band,  and  care- 
fully numbered  with  red  ink  from  one  to  seventy,  in  the  order 
they  had  been  received.  Hugh  was  nothing,  indeed,  if  not 
methodical.  In  his  own  way,  he  had  loved  Elsie,  as  well  as  ha 
was  capable  of  loving  anybody :  he  had  kept  every  word  sho 
over  wrote  to  him ;  and  now  that  she  was  gone— dead  and  gono 
for  ever — her  letters  were  all  he  had  left  that  belonged  to  her. 
He  laid  one  down  on  the  table  before  him,  and  yielding  to  a 
momentary  impulse  of  ecstasy,  he  kissed  it  first  with  reverent 
tenderness.  It  was  Elsie's  letter — poor  dead  Elsie's. — Elsie 
dead  1  He  conld  hardly  realize  it. — His  brain  whirled  and  swam 
with  the  manifold  emotions  of  that  eventful  evening.  But  he 
must  brace  himself  up  for  his  part  like  a  man.  He  must  not  bo 
weak.    There  was  work  to  do ;  he  must  make  haste  to  do  it. 

He  took  a  broad-nibbed  pen  carefully  from  his  desk — the 
broadest  he  could  find — and  fitted  it  with  pains  to  his  ivory 
holder.  Elsie  always  used  a  broad  nib — poor  drowned  Elsie — 
dear,  martyred  Elsie!  Then,  glancing  sideways  at  her  last 
letter,  he  wrote  on  the  sheet,  in  a  large  flowing  angular  hand, 
deep  and  black,  most  unlike  his  own,  which  was  neat  and  small 
and  cramped  and  rounded,  the  two  solitary  words, "  My  darling," 
He  gazed  at  them  when  done  with  evident  complacency.  They 
would  do  very  well :  an  excellent  imitation ! 

Was  he  going,  then,  to  copy  Elsie's  letter?  No;  for  its  first 
words  read  plainly,  "  My  own  darling  Hugh."  He  had  allowed 
her  to  address  him  in  such  terms  as  that ;  but  still,  he  muttered  to 
himself  even  now,  he  was  never  engaged  to  her — never  engaged 
to  her.  In  copying,  he  omitted  the  word  "  own."  That,  he 
thought,  would  probably  be  considered  quite  too  affectionate  for 
any  reasonable  probability.  T^vou  in  emergencies  he  was  cool 
and  collected.  But "  My  darling,"  was  ju::it  about  the  proper 
mean.  Girls  are  always  stupidly  gushing  in  their  expressicm  of 
feeling  to  one  another.  Ko  doubt  Elsie  herself  would  have 
begun,  "  My  darling." 

After  that,  be  turned  over  the  letters  with  careful  scrutiny,  as 
if  looking  down  the  pages  one  by  one  for  some  particular  pi:  rase 
or  word  he  wanted.  At  last  he  came  upon  the  exact  thing , 
"  Mrs.  V.QVsay  and  Winifred  a:'e  going  out  to-morrow." — That'll 
do,"  he  said  in  his  soul  to  himself :  "  a  curl  to  the  w  " — and 
laying  the  blank  sheet  once  more  before  him,  he  wrote  down 
boldly,  in  the  same  free  hand,  with  thick  black  down-strokes, 
"  My  darling  Winifred." 

The  Plan  was  shaping  itself  clearly  in  his  mind  now.    Word 


THE  PLAN  IN  EXECUTION. 


89 


hy  word  he  fitted  in  so,  copying  each  direct  from  Elsie's  letters, 
and  dovetailing  the  whole  with  skilled  literary  craftsmanship  into 
a  curious  cento  of  her  pet  phrases,  till  at  last,  after  an  hour's  hard 
and  anxious  work,  round  drops  of  sweat  standing  meanwhile 
cold  and  clammy  upon  his  hot  forehead,  he  read  it  over  with 
unmixed  approbation — to  himself— an  excellent  letter  both  in 
design  and  execution. 


ip 

1 

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1 

10 

\ 

"Whitestrand  Hall,  September  17. 
"My  darling  Winifred, 

"  I  can  hardly  make  up  my  mind  to  write  you  this 
letter;  and  yet  1  must:  I  can  no  longer  avoid  it.  I  know  yoa 
will  think  me  so  wicked,  so  ungrateful :  I  know  Mrs.  Meyscy 
will  never  forgive  me;  but  I  can't  help  it.  Circumstances  are 
too  strong  for  me.  By  the  time  this  reaches  you,  I  sliall  have 
left  Whitestrand,  I  fear  for  ever.  Why  I  am  leaving,  I  can 
never,  never,  never  tell  you.  If  you  try  to  nnd  out,  you  won't 
succeed  in  discovering  it.  I  know  what  you'll  think ;  but  you're 
quite  mistaken.  It's  something  about  which  you  have  never 
heard  ;  something  that  I've  told  to  nobody  anywhere ;  something 
I  can  never,  never  tell,  even  to  you,  darling.  I've  written  a  line 
to  explain  to  Hugh  ;  but  it's  no  use  either  of  you  trying  to  trace 
mo.  I  shall  write  to  you  some  day  again  to  let  you  know  how 
I'm  getting  on  —  but  never  my  whereabouts. —  Darling,  for 
heaven's  sake,  do  try  to  hush  this  up  as  much  as  yoi  can.  To 
have  myself  discussed  by  half  the  county  would  drive  me  mad 
with  despair  and  shame.  Get  Mrs.  Mersey  to  say  I've  been 
called  away  suddenly  by  private  business,  and  will  not  return. 
If  only  you  knew  all,  you  would  forgive  me  everything. — 
Good-bye,  darling.    Don't  think  too  harshly  of  me. 

"  Ever  your  affectionate,  but  heart-broken 

"  Elsie." 

His  soul  approved  the  style  and  the  matter.  Would  it  answer 
his  purpose?  he  wondered,  half  tremulously.  Would  they 
really  believe  Elsie  had  written  it,  and  Elsie  was  gone  ?  How 
account  for  her  never  having  been  seen  to  quit  the  grounds  of 
the  Hall?  For  her  not  having  been  observed  at  Almundham 
Station  ?  For  no  trace  being  left  of  her  by  rail  or  road,  or  sea 
or  river  ?  It  was  a  desperate  card  to  play,  he  knew,  but  he  held 
no  other ;  and  fortune  often  favours  the  bravo.  How  often  at 
loo  had  he  stood  against  all  precedent  upon  a  hopeless  hand, 
and  swept  the  board  in  the  end  by  some  audacious  stroke  of 
inspired  good  play,  or  some  strange  turn  of  the  favouring 
chances !  Ho  would  stand  to  win  now  in  the  same  spirit  on  the 
forged  letter.  It  was  his  one  good  card.  Nobody  could  ever 
prove  he  wrote  it.    And  perhaps,  with  the  unthinking  rcadiiies8 


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90 


THIS  MORTAL  COIL. 


of  the  world  at  large,  they  would  all  accept  it  without  further 
question. 

If  ever  Elsio's  lx)dy  were  recovered!  Ah,  yes:  true:  that 
would  indeed  be  fatal.  But  then,  the  chances  were  enormously 
against  it.  The  deep  sea  holds  its  own  :  it  yields  up  its  dead 
only  to  patient  and  careful  search ;  and  who  would  ever  dreara 
of  searching  for  Elsie?  Except  himself,  she  had  no  one  to  search 
for  lier.  The  letter  was  vague  and  uncertain,  to  be  sure;  but 
its  very  vagueness  was  infinitely  better  than  the  most  definite 
lie :  it  left  open  the  door  to  so  much  width  of  conjecture.  Every 
man  could  invent  his  own  solution.  If  he  had  tried  to  tell  a 
plausible  story,  it  might  have  broken  down  when  confronted 
with  the  inconvenient  detail  of  stern  reality :  but  he  had  trusted 
everything  to  imagination.  And  imagination  is  such  a  charm- 
ingly elastic  faculty !  The  Mcyseys  might  put  their  own  con- 
struction upon  it.  Each,  no  doubt,  would  put  a  diflPerent  one ; 
and  each  would  be  convinced  that  his  own  was  the  truest. 

He  folded  it  up  and  thrust  it  into  an  envelope.  Then  he 
addressed  the  face  boldly,  in  the  same  free  black  hand  as  the 
letter  itself,  to  •'  Miss  Meysey,  The  Hall,  Whitestrand."  In  the 
corner  he  stuck  the  identical  little  monogram,  E.  C,  written 
with  the  strokes  crossing  each  other,  that  Elsie  put  on  all  her 
letters.  His  power  of  imitating  the  minutest  details  of  any 
autograph  stood  him  here  in  good  stead.  It  was  a  perfect  fac- 
simile, letter  and  address :  and  tortured  as  he  was  in  his  own 
mind  by  remorse  and  fear,  he  still  smiled  to  himself  an  approving 
smile  as  he  gazed  at  the  absolutely  undetectable  forgery.  No 
expert  on  earth  could  ever  detect  it.  "  That'll  clinch  all," 
he  thought  serenely.  "  They'll  never  for  a  moment  doubt  that 
it  comes  from  Elsie." 

He  knew  the  Meyseys  had  gone  out  to  dinner  at  the  vicarage 
that  evening,  and  would  not  return  until  after  the  hour  at 
which  Elsie  usually  retired.  As  soon  as  they  got  back,  thoy 
would  take  it  for  granted  she  had  gone  to  bed,  as  she  always  did, 
and  would  in  all  probability  never  inquire  for  her.  If  so, 
nothing  would  be  known  till  to-morrow  at  breakfast.  He  must 
drop  the  letter  into  the  box  unperceived  to-night,  and  then  it 
would  be  delivered  at  Whitestrand  Hall  in  due  course  by  the 
first  post  to-morrow. 

He  shut  the  front  window,  put  out  the  lamp,  and  stole  quietly 
into  the  bedroom  behind.  That  done,  he  opened  the  little 
lattice  into  the  back  garden,  and  slipped  out,  closing  the 
window  closely  after  him,  and  blowing  out  the  candle.  The 
post-oflSce  lay  just  beyond  the  church.  He  walked  there  fast, 
dropped  his  letter  in  safety  into  the  box,  and  turned,  unseen, 
into  high-road  once  more  in  the  dusky  moonlight. 

Wearied  and  faint  and  half  delirious  as  he  was  after  his  long 


THE  PLAN  IN  EXECUTION. 


91 


immersion,  ho  couldn't  even  now  go  back  to  the  inn  to  rest 
quietly.  Elsie's  imago  haunted  him  still.  A  strange  fascina- 
tion led  him  across  the  fields  and  through  the  lane  to  the  Hull 
— to  Elsie's  last  dwelling-place.  He  walked  in  by  the  little 
side-gate,  the  way  he  iTsually  came  to  visit  Elsie,  and  prowled 
guiltily  to  the  back  of  the  house.  The  family  bad  evidently 
returned,  and  sus;')ected  nothing:  no  sign  of  bustle  or  commo- 
tion or  disturbance  betrayed  itself  anywhere :  not  a  light  showed 
from  a  single  window :  all  was  dark  and  still  from  end  to  end, 
as  if  poor  dead  Elsie  were  sleeping  calmly  in  her  own  little  bed- 
room in  the  main  building.  It  was  close  on  one  in  the  morning 
now.  Hugh  skulked  and  prowled  around  the  east  wing  on 
cautious  tiptoe,  like  a  convicted  burglar. 

As  he  passed  Elsie's  room,  all  dark  and  empty,  a  mad  desire 
seized  upon  him  all  at  once  to  look  in  at  the  window  and  see 
how  everything  lay  within  there.  At  lirst,  he  had  no  more 
reason  for  the  act  in  his  head  than  that :  the  Plan  only  developed 
itself  further  as  he  thought  of  it.  It  wouldn't  be  difficult  to 
climb  to  the  sill  by  the  aid  of  the  porch  and  the  clamoering 
wistaria.  He  hesitated  a  moment ;  then  remorse  and  curiosity 
llnally  conquered.  The  romantic  suggestion  came  to  him,  like 
a  dream,  in  his  fevered  and  almost  delirious  condition :  like  a 
dream,  he  carried  it  at  once  into  effect.  Groping  and  feeling  his 
way  with  numb  fingers,  dim  eyes,  and  head  that  still  reeled  and 
swam  in  terrible  giddiness  from  his  long  spell  of  continued 
asphyxia,  ho  raised  himself  cautiously  to  the  level  of  the  sill, 
and  prised  the  window  open  with  his  dead  white  hand.  The 
lamp  on  the  table,  though  turned  down  so  low  that  he  hadn't 
observed  its  glimmer  from  outside,  was  still  alight  and  burning 
faintly.  He  turned  it  up  just  far  enough  to  see  through  the 
gloom  his  way  about  the  bedroom.  The  door  was  closed,  but  not 
locked.  lie  twisted  the  key  noiselessly  with  dexterous  pressure, 
so  as  to  leave  it  fastened  from  the  inside. — That  was  a  clever 
touch  1 — They  would  think  Elsie  had  climbed  out  of  the  window. 

A  few  letters  and  things  lay  loose  about  the  room.  The  devil 
within  him  was  revelling  now  in  hideous  suggestions.  Why 
not  make  everything  clear  behind  him  ?  He  gathered  them  up 
and  stuck  them  in  his  pocket.  Elsies  small  black  leather  bag 
stood  on  a  wooden  frame  in  the  far  corner.  Ho  pushed  into  it 
hastily  the  nightdress  on  the  bed,  the  brush  and  comb,  and  a 
few  selected  articles  of  underclothing  from  the  chest  of  drawers 
by  the  tiled  fireplace.  The  drawers  themselves  he  left  sedu- 
lously open.  It  argued  haste.  If  you  choose  to  play  for  a  high 
stake,  you  must  play  boldly,  but  you  must  play  well.  Hugh 
never  for  a  moment  concealed  from  himself  the  fact  that  the 
adversary  against  whom  he  was  playing  now  was  the  public 
haitgman,  and  that  his  own  neck  was  the  stake  at  issue. 


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92 


TUia  MORTAL  COIL. 


If  ever  it  was  discovered  tliat  Elsie  was  drowned,  all  tlio 
world,  including  the  enlightened  British  jury— twelve  butchers 
and  bakers  and  candlestick-makers,  selected  at  random  from 
tlie  Whitestrand  rabble,  he  said  to  himself  angrily — would  draw 
the  inevitable  inference  for  themselves  that  Hugh  bad  mur- 
dered her.  His  own  neck  was  the  stake  at  issue — his  own  neck, 
and  honour  and  honesty. 

He  glanced  around  the  room  with  an  approving  eye  once 
more.  It  was  capital !  Splendid!  Every thmg  was  indeed  in 
most  admired  disorder.  The  very  spot  it  looked,  in  truth,  from 
which  a  girl  had  escaped  in  a  breathless  hurry.  Ho  left  the 
lamp  still  burning  at  half-height:  that  fitted  well;  lowered  the 
bag  by  a  piece  of  tape  to  the  garden  below ;  littered  a  few  stray 
handkerchiefs  and  lace  bodices  loosely  on  the  floor;  and  crawl- 
ing out  of  the  window  with  anxious  care,  tried  to  let  himself 
down  hand  over  hand  by  a  branch  of  the  wistaria. 

The  brancli  snapped  short  with  an  ugly  crack;  and  Hugh 
found  himself  one  secoud  later  on  the  shrubbery  below,  bruised 
and  shaken. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

WHAT  SUCCEBS? 

At  the  Meysoys'  next  morning,  all  was  turmoil  and  surprise. 
The  servants'  hall  fluttered  with  unwonted  excitement.  No 
less  an  event  than  an  elopement  was  suspected.  Miss  Elsie  had 
not  come  down  to  breakfast ;  and  when  Miss  Winifred  went  up, 
on  the  lady's-maid's  report,  to  ask  what  was  the  matter,  she  had 
found  the  door  securely  locked  on  the  inside,  and  received  no 
answer  to  her  repeated  questions.  Tho  butler,  hastily  sum- 
moned to  the  rescue,  broke  open  the  lock;  and  Winifred 
entered,  to  find  the  lamp  still  feebly  burning  at  half-height, 
and  a  huddled  confusion  everywhere  pervading  the  disordered 
room.  Clearly,  some  strange  thing  had  occurred.  Elsio's 
drawers  had  been  opened  and  searched :  the  black  bag  was 
gone  from  the  stand  in  tho  corner;  and  the  little  jewel-case 
with  the  silver  shield  on  tho  top  was  missing  from  its 
accustomed  place  on  the  dressing-table. 

With  a  sudden  cry,  Winifred  rushed  forward,  terrified.  Her 
first  idea  was  tho  usual  femiiiine  one  of  robbery  and  murder. 
Elsie  was  killed — killed  by  a  burglar.  But  one  glance  at  tho 
bed  dispelled  that  illusion ;  it  had  never  been  slept  in.  The 
nightdress  and  the  little  embroidered  nightdress-bng  in  rod 
Bilk  were  neither  of  them  there  in  their  familiar  fashion.    Tho 


WHAT  SUCCESS f 


08 


brush  and  comb  had  disappeared  from  the  base  of  the  looking- 
glass.  The  hairpins  even  had  been  removed  from  the  glass 
hair-pin  box.  These  indications  seemed  frankly  inconsistent 
with  the  theory  of  mere  intrusive  burglary.  The  enterprising 
burglar  doesn't  make  up  the  beds  of  the  robbed  and  murdered, 
after  pocketing  their  watches ;  nor  does  he  walk  ofiF,  as  a  rule, 
with  ordinary  hairbrushes  and  embroidered  nightdress-bags. 
Surprised  and  alarmed,  Winifred  rushed  to  the  window :  it  was 
open  still :  a  branch  of  the  wistaria  lay  broken  on  the  ground, 
and  the  mark  of  a  falling  body  might  be  easily  observed  among 
the  plants  and  soil  in  the  shrubbery  border. 

By  this  time,  the  Squire  had  appeared  upon  the  scene, 
bringing  in  his  hand  a  letter  for  Winifred.  With  the  cool 
common  sense  of  advancing  years,  he  surveyed  the  room  in  its 
littery  condition,  and  gazed  over  his  daughter's  shonlder  as  she 
read  the  shadowy  and  incoherent  jumble  of  phrases  Hugh 
Massinger  had  strung  together  so  carefully  in  Elsie's  name  last 
night  at  the  Fisherman's  Eest.  "  Whew ! "  he  whistled  to  him- 
self in  sharp  surprise  as  the  state  of  the  case  dawned  slowly 
upon  him.  "Depend  upon  it,  there's  a  young  man  at  the 
bottom  of  this.  'Cherchez  la  femme,*  says  the  French  proverb. 
When  a  young  woman's  in  question,  •  Cherchez  Thommo '  comes 
very  much  nearer  it.  The  girl's  run  off  with  somebody,  you 
may  be  sure.  I  only  hope  she's  run  off  all  straight  and  above- 
board,  and  not  gone  away  with  a  groom  or  a  gamekeeper  or  a 
married  clerg.vman." 

" Papa! "  Winifred  cried,  laying  down  the  letter  in  ha«5te  and 
bursting  into  tears,  "  do  you  think  Mr.  Massinger  caa  have 
anything  to  do  with  it?  " 

The  Squire  had  been  duly  apprised  last  night  by  Mrs.  Meyscy 
— in  successive  instalments — as  to  the  state  of  relations  between 
Hugh  and  Winifred ;  but  his  blunt  English  nature  cavalierly 
rejected  the  suggested  explanation  of  Elsie's  departure,  and  ho 
brushed  it  aside  at  once  after  the  fashion  of  his  kind  with  an 
easy  **  Bless  my  soul  1  no,  child.  The  girl's  run  off  with  some 
fool  somewhere.  It's  always  fools  who  run  off  with  women. 
Do  you  think  a  man  would  be  idiot  enough  to" — he  was  just 
going  to  say,  "  propose  to  one  woman  in  the  morning,  and  elope 
with  another  the  evening  after!"  but  he  checked  himself  in 
time,  before  the  faces  of  the  servants,  and  finished  his  sentence 
lamely  by  saying  instead,  "  commit  himself  so  with  a  girl  of  that 
sort?" 

"  That  wasn't  what  I  mpant,  papa,"  Winifred  whispered  low. 
"I  meant,  could  she  have  fancied  ? You  understand  me." 

The  Squire  gave  a  snort  in  place  of  No,  Impossible,  im- 
possible; the  young  man  was  so  well  connected.  She  could 
never  have  thought  he  meant  to  make  up  to  her.    Much  more 


II: 


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•^^iiyrgim'    M  I' i» 


94 


Tills  MORTAL  COIL. 


likely,  if  it  came  to  that,  the  v\r\  would  run  away  with  him 
than  from  him.  Young  women  don't  really  run  awny  from  a 
man  because  their  hearts  are  broken.  They  go  up  to  their  own 
bedrooms  instead,  and  muso  and  mope  over  it,  and  cry  their 
e^es  red. 

And  indeed,  the  Squire  remarked  to  himself  inwardly  on  the 
other  hand,  that  if  Hugh  were  minded  to  elope  with  any  one, 
he  would  bo  far  more  likely  to  elope  with  the  heiress  of  White- 
strand  than  with  a  penniless  governess  like  Elsie  Challoner. 
Elopement  implies  parental  oppositiou.  Why  the  deuce  should 
a  man  take  the  trouble  to  run  away  with  an  undowered  orphan, 
whom  nobody  on  earth  desires  to  "prevent  him  from  marrying 
any  day,  in  the  strictly  correctest  manner,  by  banns  or  license, 
at  the  parish  church  of  her  own  domicile  ?  The  suggestion 
was  clearly  quite  quixotic.  If  Elsie  had  run  away  with  any 
one,  it  was  neither  from  nor  with  this  young  man  of  Winifred's, 
the  Squire  felt  suit^  hut  with  the  gardener's  son  or  with  the 
under-gamekecper. 

Still,  he  felt  distinctly  relieved  in  his  own  mind  when,  at 
half-past  ten,  Hugh  Massingcr  strolled  idly  in,  a  rose  in  his 
button-hole  and  a  smile  on  his  face — though  a  little  lame  of  the 
left  leg— all  unconscious,  apj)aiently,  that  anything  out  of  the 
common  had  happened  since  last  night  at  the  great  house. 

Hugh  was  one  of  the  very  finest  and  most  finished  actors 
then  performing  on  the  stage  of  social  England;  but  even  he 
had  a  diflBcult  part  to  play  that  stormy  morning,  and  he  went 
through  his  role,  taking  it  altogether,  with  but  indifferent 
success,  though  with  sufficient  candour  to  float  him  through 
unsuspected  somehow.  The  circumstances,  indeed,  were  terribly 
against  him.  When  he  fell  the  night  before  from  Elsie's 
window,  he  had  bruised  and  shaken  himself,  already  fatigued 
as  he  was  by  his  desperate  swim  and  his  long  unconsciousness ; 
and  it  was  with  a  violent  effort,  goaded  on  by  the  sense  of 
absolute  necessity  alone,  that  he  picked  himself  up,  black  bag 
and  all,  and  staggered  home,  with  one  ankle  strained,  to  his 
rooms  at  the  Stanuaways*.  Once  arrived  there,  after  that  night 
of  terrors  and  manifold  adventures,  he  locked  away  Elsie's  be- 
longings cautiously  in  a  back  cupboard — incriminating  evidence, 
indeed,  if  anyf'ing  should  ever  happen  to  come  out — and  flung 
himself  half  undressed  at  last  in  a  fever  of  fatigue  upon  the 
bed  in  the  corner. 

Strange  to  say  ho  slept — slept  soundly.  Worn  out  with  over- 
work and  exertion  and  faintuess,  ho  slept  on  peacefully  like  a 
tired  child,  till  at  nine  o'clock  Mrs.  Stannaway  rapped  hard  at 
the  door  to  rouse  him.  Then  he  woke  with  a  start  from  a  heavy 
sleep,  his  head  aching,  but  drowsy  still,  and  with  feverish  pains 
in  ail  his  limbs  from  his  desperate  swim  and  his  long  immersion. 


f 


WHAT  SUCQESSf 


M 


IIo  was  quite  unfit  to  get  up  and  dress;  but  ho  rose  for  all  that, 
us  it'  all  was  well,  and  oven  pretended  to  eat  some  breakfas% 
though  a  cup  of  tea  was  the  only  thing  he  could  really  gulp 
down  his  parched  throat  in  his  horror  and  excitement.  Last 
night's  events  came  clearly  home  to  him  now  in  their  naked 
gliastliness,  and  with  sinking  heart  and  throbbing  head,  he 
realized  the  full  extent  of  his  guilt  and  his  danger,  the  depth 
of  his  remorse,  and  the  profundity  of  his  folly. 

Klsie  was  gone — that  was  his  first  thought.  There  was  no 
more  an  Elsie  to  reckon  with  in  all  this  world.  Her  place  was 
b'ank — how  blank  he  could  never  before  have  truly  realized. 
The  whole  world  itself  was  blank  too.  What  he  loved  best  in 
it  all  was  gone  clean  out  of  it. 

Elsie,  Elsie,  poor  drowned,  lost  Elsie  I  His  heart  ached  as  he 
thought  to  himself  of  Elsie,  gasping  and  struggling  in  that  cold, 
cold  sea,  among  those  fierce  wild  breakers,  for  one  last  breath— 
and  knew  it  was  he  who  had  driven  her,  by  his  baseness  and 
wickedness  and  cruelty,  to  that  terrible  end  of  a  sweet  young 
existence.  He  had  darkened  the  sun  in  heaven  for  himself 
henceforth  and  for  ever.  He  had  sown  the  wind,  and  he  should 
reap  the  whirlwind.  He  hated  himself;  he  hated  Winifred ;  he 
hated  everybody  and  everything  but  Elsie.  Poor  martyred 
Elsie!  Beautiful  Elsie!  His  own  sweet,  exquisite,  noble  Elsie ! 
He  would  have  given  the  whole  world  at  that  moment  to  bring 
her  back  again.  But  the  past  was  irrevocable,  quite  irrevocable. 
There  was  nothing  fur  a  strong  man  now  to  do  but  to  brace 
himself  up  and  face  the  present. 

"If  not,  what -resolution  from  despair?" — That  was  all  the 
comfort  his  philosophy  could  give  him. 

Elsie's  things  were  locked  up  in  the  cupboard.  If  suspicion 
lighted  upon  him  iu  any  way  now,  it  was  all  up  with  him. 
Elsie's  bag  and  jewel-case  and  clothing  in  the  cupboard  would 
alone  be  more  than  enough  to  hang  him.  Hang  him !  What 
did  he  care  any  longer  for  hanging?  They  might  hang  him 
and  welcome,  if  they  chose  to  try.  For  sixpence  he  would  save 
them  the  trouble,  and  drown  himself.  He  wanted  to  die.  It 
was  fate  that  prevented  him.  Why  hadn't  he  drowned  when  he 
might,  last  night  ?  An  ugly  proverb  that,  about  the  man  who 
is  born  to  bo  hanged,  etc.,  etc.  Some  of  these  proverbs  are  down- 
right rude— positively  vulgar  iu  the  coarse  simplicity  and 
directness  of  their  language. 

He  gulped  down  the  tea  with  a  terrible  eflfovt :  it  was  scald- 
ing hot,  and  it  burnt  his  mouth,  but  he  scarcely  noticed  it. 
Then  he  pulled  about  the  sole  on  his  fork  for  a  moment,  to  dirty 
the  plate,  and  boning  it  roughly,  gave  the  flesh  to  the  cat,  who 
ate  it  purring  on  the  rug  by  the  fireplace.  He  waited  for  a 
reasonable  interval  next  before  ringing  the  bell — it  takes  a  lone 


■^  m 


■  I    .  V I 

.  i 


96 


THIS  MORTAL   COIL. 


man  ten  minutes  to  hreakfost — but  as  soon  as  that  necesparv 
time  had  passed,  he  put  on  his  hat,  crushing  it  down  on  his  heiitl, 
and  with  fiery  soul  and  bursting  temples,  strolled  up,  with  the 
jauntiest  air  ho  could  assume,  to  the  Meyseys'  after  breakfj^st. 

Winifred  met  him  at  the  front  door.  His  new  sweetheart 
was  pale  and  terrified,  but  not  now  crying.  Hu^h  felt  himself 
constrained  to  presume  upon  their  novel  relations  and  insist 
upon  a  kiss— she  would  expect  it  of  him.  it  was  the  very 
first  time  he  had  ever  kissed  her,  and,  oh  evil  ornen,  it  re- 
volted him  at  last  that  ho  had  now  to  do  it — with  Elsie's  body 
tossed  about  that  very  moment  by  the  cruel  waves  upon  that 
angry  bar  or  on  the  cold  sea-bottom.  It  was  treason  to  Elsie 
— to  poor  dead  Elsie— that  he  should  ever  kiss  any  other 
woman.  His  kisses  were  hers,  his  heart  was  hers,  for  ever  and 
ever.  But  what  would  you  have?  Ho  looked  on,  as  he  had 
said,  as  if  from  above,  at  circumstances  wafting  his  own  cha- 
racter and  his  own  actions  hither  and  thither  wherever  tiiey 
willed— and  this  was  the  pass  to  which  they  had  now  brought 
him.  He  must  play  out  the  game — play  it  out  to  the  end, 
whatever  it  might  cost  him. 

Winifred  took  the  kiss  mechanically  and  coldly,  and  handed 
him  Elsie's  letter — his  own  forced  letter — without  one  word  of 
preface  or  explanation.  Hugh  was  glad  sho  did  so  at  the  very 
first  moment — it  allowed  hira  to  relieve  himself  at  once  from 
the  terrible  strain  of  the  nffected  gaiety  he  was  keeping  up  just 
to  save  appearances.  He  couldn't  have  kept  it  up  much  longer. 
Hif  countenance  fell  visibly  as  he  read  the  note — or  protended 
to  read  it,  for  he  had  no  need  really  to  glance  at  its  words — 
every  word  of  them  all  now  burnt  into  the  very  fibres  and  fabric 
of  his  being. 

"  Why,  what  does  this  mean,  Miss  Meysey— that  is  to  say, 
Winifred  ?  "  he  corrected  himself  hurriedly.  "  Elsie  isn't  gone  ? 
She's  here  this  morning  as  usual.  Purely  ?  " 

As  he  said  it  he  almost  hoped  t  might  be  true.  He  could 
hardly  believe  the  horrible,  horrible  reality.  His  face  was  pale 
enough  in  all  conscience  now — a  little  too  pale,  perhaps,  for  the 
letter  alone  to  justify.  Winifred,  eyeing  him  close,  saw  at  a 
glance  that  he  was  deeply  moved. 

"  She's  gone,**  she  said,  not  too  tenderly  either.  "  She  went 
away  last  night,  taking  her  things  with  her— at  least  some  of 
them. — Do  you  know  where  she's  gone,  Mr.  Massiuger  ?  Has 
she  written  to  you,  as  she  promises  V  " 

"Not  Mr.  Massinger,"  Hugh  corrected  gravely,  with  a  livid 
white  face,  yet  affecting  jauntiness.  **  It  was  agreed  yesterday 
it  should  be  *  Hugh  *  in  future. — No ;  I  don't  at  all  know  where 
she  is,  Winifred ;  I  wish  I  did."  He  said  it  seriously.  "  Sho 
hasn't  written  a  single  line  to  me." 


rat 
ex 
at 
wo 


f 


WHAT  SUCCESS f 


9T 


Hns^li's  answer  liacl  the  very  ring  of  truth  in  it— for  indeed  it 
was  true;  and  Winifred,  watching  him  with  a  woman's  closeness, 
felt  certain  in  her  own  mind  that  in  this  at  least  ho  was  not 
deceiving  her.  But  }ie  certainly  grew  unnecessarily  pale. 
Cousinly  affection  would  hardly  account  for  so  much  disturb- 
ance of  the  vaso-motor  system.  She  questioned  him  closely  as 
to  all  that  had  passed  or  might  have  passed  between  them  these 
weeks  or  earlier.  Did  ho  know  anything  of  Elsie's  movements 
or  feelings?  Hugh,  holding  the  letter  firmly  in  one  hand,  and 
playing  with  the  key  of  that  incriminating  cupboard,  in  his 
waistcoat  pocket,  loosely  with  the  other,  passed  with  credit  his 
examination,  he  had  never,  he  said,  with  gay  flippancy 
almost,  been  really  intimate  with  Elsie,  talked  confidences  with 
Elsie,  or  received  any  from  Elsio  in  return.  She  did  not  know 
of  his  engagement  to  Winifred.  Yet  he  feared,  whatever  her 
course  might  bo,  some  man  or  other  must  be  its  leading  motive. 
Ptrhapa — but  this  with  the  utmost  hesitation — WarrenBelf  and 
she  might  have  struck  up  a  love  affair. 

He  felt,  of  course,  it  was  a  serious  ordeal.  Apart  from  the 
profounder  background  of  possible  consequences — the  obvious 
charge  of  having  got  rid  of  Elsie — two  other  unpleasant  notions 
stared  him  full  in  the  face.  The  first  was,  that  the  Meyseys 
might  suspect  him  of  having  driven  Elsie  to  run  away  by  his 
proposal  to  Winifred.  But  supposing  even  they  never  thought 
of  that — which  was  liighly  unlikely,  considering  the  close 
sequence  of  the  two  events  and  the  evident  drift  of  Winifred's 
questions — there  still  remained  the  second  unpleasantness— that 
his  cousin,  through  whom  alone  he  had  been  introduced  to  the 
family,  should  have  disappeared  under  such  mysterious  circum- 
stances. Was  it  likely  they  would  wish  their  daughter  to  mairy 
a  man  among  whose  relations  such  odd  and  unaccountable  things 
were  likely  to  happen  ? 

For,  strangely  enough,  Hugh  still  wished  to  marry  Winifred. 
Though  he  loathed  her  in  his  heart  just  then  for  not  being  Elsie, 
and  even,  by  some  illogical  twist  of  thought,  for  having  been  the 
unconscious  cause  of  Elsie's  misfortunes;  though  he  would  have 
died  himself  far  rather  than  lived  without  Elsie;  yet,  if  he  lived, 
he  wished  for  all  that  to  marry  W^inifred.  For  one  thing,  it  was 
the  programme ;  and  because  it  was  the  programme,  he  wanted, 
with  his  strict  business  habits,  to  carry  it  out  to  the  bitter  end. 
For  another  thing,  his  future  all  depended  upon  it ;  and  though 
he  didn't  care  a  straw  at  present  for  his  future,  he  went  on 
acting,  by  the  pure  force  of  habit  in  a  prudent  man,  as  delibe- 
rately and  cautiously  as  if  he  had  still  the  same  serious  stake  in 
existence  as  ever.  He  wasn't  going  to  chuck  up  everything  all 
at  once,  just  because  life  was  now  an  utter  blank  to  him.  He 
would  go  on  as  usual  in  the  regular  groove,  and  pretend  to  the 


m 


u 


I;-; 


m 


i. 


■.   I  j 


98 


THIS  MORTAL  COIL. 


world  lio  was  still  every  bit  as  interested  and  engaged  in  life  as 
formerly. 

So  he  brazened  tbinps  otit  with  the  Moyscys  somehow,  and  to 
his  immense  astonisliiuont,  he  soon  discovered  they  were  roafly 
dupos,  in  no  way  set  against  him  by  this  untoward  accident. 
On  the  contrary,  instcnd  of  finding,  as  he  had  expected,  that 
they  considered  this  delinquency  on  the  part  of  his  cousin  told 
against  liimself  as  a  remote  partner  of  her  original  sin,  by  right 
of  heredity,  he  found  the  Squire  and  Mrs.  Meyscy  nervously 
anxious  for  their  part  lest  he,  her  nearest  male  relative,  should 
suspect  them  of  having  inelficiently  guarded  his  cousin's  youth, 
inexperience,  and  innocence.  They  were  all  apology,  where  he 
had  looked  for  coldness ;  they  were  all  on  the  defensive,  where 
ho  had  expected  to  see  them  vigorously  carrying  the  war  info 
Africa.  One  thing,  above  all  others,  he  noted  with  profound 
satisfaction— nobody  seemed  to  doubt  for  one  second  the  genuine- 
ness and  authenticity  of  the  forged  letter.  Whatever  else  they 
doabted,  the  letter  was  safe.  They  all  took  it  fully  for  granted 
that  Elsie  had  gone,  of  her  own  free-will,  gone  to  the  four  winds, 
with  no  trace  left  of  her ;  and  that  Hugh,  in  the  perfect  iimo- 
cence  of  his  heart,  knew  no  more  than  they  themselves  about  it. 

Nothing  else,  of  course,  was  talked  of  at  Whitestrand  that 
livelong  day ;  and  before  night,  the  gossips  and  quidnuncs  of 
the  village  inn  and  the  servants'  hall  had  a  complete  theory  of 
their  own  to  account  for  the  episode.  Tlieir  theory  was  simple, 
romantic,  and  improbable.  It  had  the  dearly-loved  spice  of 
mystery  about  it  The  coHstguard  had  noticed  that  a  ship, 
name  unknown,  with  a  red  light  at  the  masthead  and  a  green  on 
the  port  bow,  had  put  in  hastily  about  nine  o'clock  the  night 
before,  near  the  big  poplar.  The  Whitestrand  cronies  had 
magnified  this  fact  before  nightfall,  through  various  additions  of 
more  or  less  fanciful  observers  or  non-observers — for  fiction,  too, 
counts  for  something— into  a  consistent  story  of  a  most  orthodox 
elopement.  Miss  Elsie  had  let  herself  down  by  a  twisted  sheet 
out  of  her  own  window,  to  escape  observation— some  said  a  rope, 
but  the  majority  voted  for  the  twisted  sheet,  as  more  strictly  in 
accordance  with  established  precedent — she  had  slipped  away  to 
the  big  tree,  where  a  gentleman's  yacht,  from  parts  unknown, 
had  put  in  cautiously,  before  a  terrible  gale,  by  previous  arrange- 
ment, and  had  carried  her  over  through  a  roaring  sea  across  to 
the  opposite  coast  of  Flanders.  Detail  after  detail  grew  apace ; 
and  before  long  there  were  some  who  even  admitted  to  having 
actually  seen  a  foreign-looking  gentleman  in  a  dark  cloak — tho 
cloak  is  a  valuable  romantic  property  upon  such  occasions — 
catch  a  white-robed  lady  in  his  stout  arms  as  she  leaped  a  wild 
leap  into  an  open  boat  from  the  spray-covered  platform  of  the 
guaried  poplar  roots.  Hugh  smiled  a  grim  and  hideous  smile  of 


^^^t 


LIVE  on  DIE  J 


99 


Eolite  incrcdiilily  as  lie  listened  to  those  final  imaginative  om- 
ellishmonts  of  the  popular  fancy;  but  ho  accepted  in  outline 
the  romantic  tale  as  the  best  possible  version  of  Elsie's  disap- 
pearance for  public  acceptance.  It  kept  tlie  police  at  least  from 
poking  their  noses  too  deep  into  this  family  affair,  and  it  freed 
Iiim  from  any  possible  tinge  of  blame  in- the  eyes  of  the  Meyscys. 
Nobody  can  bo  found  fault  with  for  somebody  else's  elopement. 
Two  points  at  least  seemed  fairly  certain  to  the  Whitestrand 
intelligence :  first,  that  Miss  Elsie  had  run  away  of  her  own 
accord,  in  the  absence  of  the  family ;  and  second,  that  she  neither 
went  by  road  nor  rail,  so  that  only  the  sea  or  river  appeared  to 
be  left  by  way  of  a  possible  explanation. 

The  Meyseys,  of  course,  were  less  credulous  as  to  detail ;  but 
even  the  Meyseys  suspected  nothing  serious  in  the  matter. 
That  Elsie  had  gone  was  all  they  kuow  j  why  she  went,  was  a 
profound  mystery  to  theiu. 


hi;', 


CHAPTEB  XIV. 

LIVE  OR  DIE? 

And  all  this  time,  wiiat  had  become  of  Elsie  and  the  men  in 
i\\Q  Mud-Turtle  1 

Hugh  Massinger,  for  his  part,  toolc  it  for  grant*  d,  fro  i  the 
moment  he  came  to  himself  again  on  the  biuk  uf  th<  salt 
marshes,  that  Elsie's  body  was  lying  unseen  full  fathoii,  'vo 
beneath  the  German  Ocean,  and  that  no  tangible  evidence  of  hia 
crime  and  his  deceit  would  ever  be  forthcoming  to  prove  the 
naked  truth  in  all  its  native  ugliness  against  him.  From  time 
to  time,  to  be  sure,  one  disquieting  thought  for  a  moment  occurred 
to  his  uneasy  mind :  a  back-current  might  pe.  'laps  cast  up  the 
corpse  upon  the  long  dike  where  he  had  himseh"  been  stranded, 
or  the  breakers  on  the  bar  might  fling  it  ashore  upon  the  great 
sands  that  stretched  for  miles  on  either  side  of  the  river  mouth 
at  Whitestrand.  But  to  these  terrible  imaginings  of  the  night- 
watches,  the  more  judicial  functions  of  his  waking  brain  refused 
their  assent  on  closer  consideration.  He  himself  had  floated 
through  that  seething  turmoil  simply  because  he  knew  how  to 
float.  A  woman,  caught  wildly  by  the  careeriug  current  in  its 
headlong  course,  would  naturally  give  a  few  mad  struggles  for 
life,  gasping  and  gulping  and  flinging  up  her  hands;  as  those 
untaught  to  swim  invariably  do ;  but  when  once  the  stream  had 
carried  her  under,  she  would  \  ever  rise  again  from  so  profound 
and  measureless  a  'epth  of  wuter.  He  did  not  in  any  way 
doubt  that  the  bod.  had  IxxiU  '♦rtcpt  away  seaward  with  irre- 


,  I 


.')' 


IvX) 


THIS  MORTAL  COIL. 


sistible  might  by  the  first  force  of  the  outward  flow,  and  that  it 
now  lay  huddled  at  the  bottom  of  the  German  Ocean  in  some 
deep  pool,  whence  dredge  or  diver  could  never  by  human  means 
recover  it. 

How  differently  would  he  have  thought  and  acted  all  along 
had  he  only  known  that  Warren  Eelf  and  his  companion  on  the 
Mud-Turtle  had  found  Elsie's  body  floating  on  the  surface,  a 
limp  burden,  not  half  an  hour  after  its  first  immersion. 

That  damning  fact  rendered  all  Jus  bold  precautions  and 
daring  plans  for  the  future  worse  than  useless.  As  things  really 
stood,  he  was  plotting  and  scheming  for  his  own  condemnation. 
Through  the  mere  accident  that  Elsie's  body  had  been  recovered, 
he  was  heaping  up  suspicious  circumstantial  evidence  against 
himself  by  the  forged  letter,  by  the  night  escapade,  by  the  wild 
design  of  entering  Elsie's  bedroom  at  the  Hall,  by  the  mad  idea 
of  concealing  at  his  own  lodgings  her  purloined  clothes  and 
jewelry  and  belongings.  If  ever  an  inquiry  should  come  to  be 
raised  into  the  way  thnt  Elsie  met  her  death,  the  very  cunning 
with  which  Hugh  had  fabricated  a  false  scent  would  recoil  in 
the  end  most  sternly  againsu  himself.  The  spoor  that  he 
scattered  would  come  home  to  track  him.  Could  any  one 
believe  that  an  innocent  man  would  so  carefully  surround  him- 
self with  an  enveloping  atmosphere  of  suspicious  circumstances 
out  of  pure  wantonness  ? 

And  yet,  technically  spraking,  Hugh  was  in  reality  quite  inno- 
cent. ]\lurderer  as  he  felt  himself,  he  had  done  no  murder. 
Morally  guilty  though  he  might  be  of  the  causes  which  led  to 
Elsie's  death,  there  was  nothing  of  legal  or  formal  crime  to  object 
against  him  in  any  court  of  so-called  justice.  Every  man  has  a 
right  to  marry  whom  he  will ;  and  if  a  young  woman  with  whom 
he  has  cautiously  and  scrupulously  avoided  contracting  any 
definite  engagement,  chooses  to  consider  herself  aggrieved  by 
his  conduct,  and  to  go  incontinently,  whether  by  accident  or 
design,  and  drown  herself  in  chagrin  and  despair  and  misery, 
why,  that  is  clearly  no  fault  of  his,  however  much  she  may 
regard  herself  as  injr.red  by  him.  The  law  has  nothing  to  do 
with  sentiment.  Judges  quote  no  precedent  from  Shelley  or 
Tennyson.  If  Hugh  had  told  the  whole  truth,  he  would  at 
least  have  been  free  from  legal  blame.  By  his  extraordinary 
precautions  against  possible  doubts,  he  had  only  succeeded  in 
making  himself  seem  guilty  in  the  eyes  even  of  the  unromantio 
lawyers. 

When  Warrrn  Relf  drew  Elsie  Challoner,  a  huddled  mass,  on 
board  the  Mud-Turtle,  the  surf  was  rolling  so  high  on  the  bar 
that,  with  one  accord,  he  and  Potts  decided  together  it  would  be 
impossible  for  them,  against  such  a  sea,  to  run  up  the  tidal 


LIVE  OR  DIEf 


101 


mouth  to  Whites^rand.  TLeir  piteous  little  dot  of  a  craft  could 
never  face  it.  Wind  had  veered  to  the  south-east.  The  only 
way  possible  now  was  to  head  her  round  again,  and  make  before 
the  shifting  breeze  for  Lowestoft,  the  nearest  noithward  harbour 
of  refuge. 

It  was  an  awful  moment.  Tlie  sea  roared  onward  throTagh 
the  black  night;  the  cross-drift  whirled  and  wreathed  and 
eddied ;  the  blinding  foam  lashed  itself  in  volleys  through  the 
dusk  and  gloom  against  their  quivering  broadside.  And  those 
two  men,  nothing  daunted,  drove  the  Mud-Turth  once  more 
across  the  flank  of  the  wind,  and  fronted  her  bows  in  a  direct 
line  for  the  port  of  Lowestoft,  in  spite  of  wind  and  sea  and 
tempest. 

But  how  were  they  to  manajre  meanwhile,  in  that  tossing 
cockleshell  of  a  boat,  about  tlie  laily  they  had  scarcely  rescued? 
That  Elsie  was  drowned,  Warren  Eelf  didn't  for  a  moment 
doubt;  still,  in  every  case  of  apparent  drowning,  it  is  a  duty  to 
make  sure  life  is  really  extinct  before  one  gives  up  all  hope ; 
and  that  duty  was  a  difficult  one  indeed  to  perform  on  board  a 
tiny  yawl,  pitching  and  rolling  before  a  violent  gale,  and  manned 
against  the  manifold  dangers  of  the  sea  by  exactly  two  amateur 
sailors.  But  there  was  no  help  for  it.  The  ship  must  drift  with 
one  mariner  only.  Potts  did  his  best  for  the  moment  to  navigate 
the  dancing  little  yawl  alone,  now  that  they  let  her  scud  before 
the  full  force  of  the  favouring  wind,  under  little  canvas ;  while 
Warren  Eelf,  staggering  and  steadying  himself  in  the  cabin 
below,  rolled  the  body  round  in  rugs  and  blankets,  and  tried  his 
utmost  to  pour  a  few  drops  of  brandy  down  the  pale  lips  of  the 
beautiful  girl  who  lay  listless  and  apparently  lifeless  before  him. 

It  was  to  him  indeed  a  terrible  task;  for  from  the  first 
moment  when  the  painter  set  eyes  on  Elsie  Challoner,  he  had  felt 
some  nameless  charm  about  her  face  and  manner,  some  tender 
cadence  in  her  musical  voice,  that  affected  him  as  no  other  face 
and  no  other  voice  had  ever  aflfceted  him  or  could  ever  affect  him. 
He  was  not  exactly  in  love  with  Elsie — love  with  him  was  a 
plant  of  slower  growth — but  he  was  fascinated,  impressed,  in- 
terested, charmed  by  her.  And  to  sit  there  alone  in  that  tossing 
cabin,  with  Elsie  cold  and  stiff  on  the  berth  before  him,  was  to 
him  more  utterly  painful  and  unmanning  than  he  could  ever 
have  imagined  a  week  or  two  earlier. 

He  did  not  doubt  one  instant  the  true  story  of  the  case.  He 
felt  instinctively  in  his  heart  that  Hugh  Massinger  had  shown 
her  his  inmost  nature,  and  that  this  was  the  final  and  horrible 
result  of  Hugh's  airy  easy  protestations. 

As  he  sat  there,  watching  by  the  light  of  the  one  oil  lamp,  and 
rubbing  her  hands  and  arras  gently  with  his  rough  hard  palms, 
he  saw  a  sudden  tumultuous  movement  of  Elsie's  bosom,  a  sort 


iJi 


i^^^    ':f 

■> 


Si  !  :il 

1  ■■     ■■ 

■  , 

I  1 

i 

\    li. 

1—1  ^ 

jr'  '1    It 

■  'Y- 

u 

m 


■ 


102 


THIS  MORTAL   COIL. 


of  gasp  that  convulsed  her  lungs— a  deep  inspiration,  with  n 
gurgling  noise;  and  then,  like  a  flash, it  was  borne  in  upon  him 
suddenly  that  all  was  not  over — that  Elsie  might  yet  be  saved— 
that  she  was  still  living. 

It  was  a  terrible  hour,  a  terrible  position.  If  only  they  had 
had  one  more  hand  on  board,  one  more  person  to  help  him  with 
the  task  of  recovering  her!  But  how  could  he  ever  hope  to 
revive  that  fainting  girl,  alone  and  unaided,  while  the  ship 
drifted  on,  single-handed,  tossing  and  plunging  before  that 
stiffening  breeze?  He  almost  despaired  of  being  able  to  effect 
anything.  Yet  life  is  life,  and  he  would  nerve  himself  up  for  it. 
He  would  try  his  best,  and  thank  heaven  this  boisterous  wind 
that  roared  through  the  rigging  would  carry  them  quick  and 
safe  to  Lowestoft. 

His  mother  and  sister  were  still  thero.  If  once  he  could  get 
Miss  Challoner  safe  to  land,  they  might  even  now  hope  to 
recover  her.  Where  there's  life,  there's  hope.  But  what  hope 
in  the  dimly  lighted  cabin  of  a  toy  yawl,  just  fit  for  two  hardy 
weather-beaten  men  to  rough  it  hardly  in,  and  pitching  with 
wild  plunges  before  as  fierce  a  gale  as  ever  ploughed  the  yeasty 
surface  of  the  German  Ocean  ? 

He  rushed  to  the  companion-ladder  as  well  as  he  was  able, 
steadying  himself  on  his  sea-legs  by  the  rail  as  he  went,  and 
shouted  aloud  in  breathless  excitement:  "Potts,  she's  alive! 
she's  not  drowned !  Can  you  manage  the  ship  anyhow  still, 
while  I  try  my  best  to  bring  her  round  again  V  " 

Potts  answered  back  with  a  cheery :  '•  All  right.  There's 
nothing  much  to  do  but  to  let  her  run.  She's  out  of  our  hands, 
for  good  or  evil.  The  admiral  of  the  fleet  could  do  no  more  for 
her.  If  we're  swamped,  we're  swamped ;  and  if  we're  not,  we're 
running  clear  for  Lowestoft  harbour.  Give  her  sea-room 
enough,  and  she'll  go  anywhere.  The  storm  don't  live  that  11 
founder  the  Mud-Turtle.  I'll  land  you  or  drown  you,  but  any- 
how I'll  manage  her." 

With  that  manful  assurance  satisfying  his  soul,  Warren  Eelf 
turned  back,  his  heart  on  fire,  to  the  narrow  cabin  and  flung 
himself  once  more  on  his  knees  before  Elsie. 

A  more  terrible  night  was  seldom  remembered  by  the  oldest 
pailors  on  the  North  Sea.  Smacks  were  wrecked  and  colliers 
foundered,  and  a  British  gunboat,  manned  by  the  usual  com- 
plement of  scientific  officers,  dashed  herself  full  tilt  in  mad  fury 
against  the  very  base  of  a  first-class  lighthouse ;  but  the  taut 
little  Mud-  Turtle,  true  to  her  reputation  as  the  staunchest  craft 
that  sailed  the  British  channels,  rode  it  bravely  out,  and  battled 
her  way  triumphantly,  about  one  in  the  morning,  through  the 
big  waves  that  rolled  up  the  mouth  of  Lowestoft  harbour. 
Potts  had  navigated  her  single-handed  amid  storm  and  breakers. 


LIVE  OR  DIEf 


103 


and  Warren  Keif,  in  the  cabin  below,  had  almost  succeeded  in 
making  Elsie  Challoner  open  her  e^  es  again. 

But  as  soon  as  the  excitement  of  that  wild  race  for  life  was 
fairly  over,  and  the  Mud-Turtlelay  in  calm  water  once  more,  with 
perfect  safety,  the  embarrassing  nature  of  the  situation,  from  the 
^  conventional  point  of  view,  burst  suddenly  for  the  tirst  time  upon 
'  Warren  Kelt's  astonished  vision ;  and  he  began  to  reflect  that 
for  two  young  men  to  arrive  in  port  about  the  small  hours  of 
the  morning,  with  a  young  lady  very  imperfectly  known  to  either 
of  them,  lying  in  a  dead  faint  on  their  cabin  bunk,  was,  to  say 
the  least  of  it,  a  fact  open  to  social  and  even  to  judicial  miscon- 
struction. It's  all  very  well  to  say  offhand,  you  picked  the  lady 
up  in  the  German  Ocean ;  but  Society  is  apt  to  move  the 
previous  question,  how  did  she  get  there?  Still,  something 
must  be  done  with  the  uncovenanted  passenger.  There  waa 
nothing  for  it,  Warren  Relf  felt,  even  at  tliat  late  season  of  the 
night,  but  to  carry  the  half-inanimate  patient  up  to  his  mother's 
lodgings,  and  to  send  for  a  doctor  to  bring  her  round  at  the 
earliest  possible  opportunity. 

When  Elsie  was  aware  of  herself  once  more,  it  was  broad  day- 
light ;  and  she  lay  on  a  bed  in  a  strange  room,  dimly  conscious 
tliat  two  women  whom  she  did  not  know  were  bending  tenderly 
and  lovingly  over  her.  The  elder,  seen  through  a  haze  of  half- 
closed  eyelashes,  was  a  sweet  old  lady  with  snow-white  hair, 
and  a  gentle  motherly  expression  in  her  soft  gray  eyes;  one  of 
the  few  women  who  know  how  to  age  graciously — 

"  Whose  fair  old  face  grew  more  fair 
As  Point  and  Flanders  yellow." 

The  younger  was  a  girl  about  Elsie's  own  time  of  life,  who  looked 
as  sisterly  as  the  other  looked  motherly ;  a  pleasant-faced  girl, 
not  exactly  pretty,  but  with  a  clear  brown  skin,  a  cheek  like  the 
sunny  side  of  peaches,  and  a  smile  that  showed  a  faultless  row 
of  teeth  within,  besides  lighting  up  and  irradiating  the  whole 
countenance  with  a  charming  sense  of  kindliness  and  girlish 
innocence.  In  a  single  word  it  was  a  winning  face.  Elsie  lay 
with  her  eyes  half  open,  looking  up  at  the  face  through  her 
crossed  eyelashes,  for  many  minutes,  not  realizing  in  any  way 
her  present  position,  but  conscious  only,  in  a  dimly  pleased  and 
dreamy  fashion,  that  the  face  seemed  to  soothe  and  comfort  and 
console  her. 

Soothe  and  comfort  and  console  her  for  what?  She  hardly  knew. 
Some  deep-seated  pain  in  her  inner  nature — some  hurt  she  had 
had  in  her  tenderest  feelings — a  horrible  aching  'blank  and 
void. — She  remembered  now  that  something  unspeakable  and 
incredible  had  happened.— The  sun  had  grown  suddenly  dark 
in  heaven.—  She  had  been  sitting  by  the  waterside  with  dear 


^4 


■  M 


m 


•r ;  I 


i.    '^i 


i 


'M 


ll^ 


104 


THIS  MORTAL  COIL. 


Hugh — as  she  thought  of  the  name,  that  idolized  name,  a  smile 
played  for  a  moment  faintly  round  the  corners  of  her  mouth ; 
and  the  older  lady,  still  seen  half  unconsciously  through  the 
chink  in  the  eyelids,  whispered  in  an  audible  tone  to  the  younger 
and  nearer  one :  "  She's  coming  round,  Edie.  She's  waking  now. 
1  hope,  poor  dear,  she  won't  be  dreadfully  frightened,  when  she 
sees  only  two  strangers  by  the  bed  beside  her." 

♦'  Frightened  at  you,  mother,"  the  other  voice  answered,  soft 
and  low,  as  in  a  pleasant  dream.  *'  Why,  nobody  on  earth  could 
ever  bo  anything  but  delighted  to  wake  up  anywhere  and  find 
you,  with  your  dear  sweet  old  face,  sitting  by  their  bedside." 

Elsie,  still  peering  with  half  her  pupils  only  through  the 
closed  lids,  smiled  to  herself  once  more  at  the  gentle  murmur  of 
those  pleasant  voices,  both  of  them  tender  and  womanly  and 
musical,  and  went  on  to  herself  placidly  with  her  own  imaginings. 

Sitting  by  the  waterside  with  her  dear  Hugh — dear,  dear 

Hugh — that  prince  of  men.  How  handsome  he  was ;  and  how 
clever,  and  how  generous !  And  Hugh  had  begun  to  tell  her 
something.  Eh  I  but  something !  What  was  it  ?  What  was 
it  ?  She  couldn't  remember ;  she  only  knew  it  was  somethiug 
terrible,  something  disastrous,  somethiug  unutterable,  something 
killing.  And  then  she  rushed  away  from  him,  mad  with  terror, 
towards  the  big  tree,  and 

Ah! 

It  was  an  awful,  heart-broken,  heart-rending  cry.  Coming  to 
herself  suddenly,  as  the  whole  truth  flashed  like  lightning  once 
more  across  her  bewildered  brain,  the  poor  girl  tlung  up  her 
arms,  raised  herself  wildly  erect  in  the  bed,  and  stared  around 
her  with  a  horrible  vacant,  maddened  look,  as  if  all  her  life  were 
cut  at  once  from  under  her.  Both  of  the  strangers  recognized 
instinctively  what  that  look  meant.  It  was  the  look  and  the 
cry  of  a  crushed  life.  If  ever  they  had  harboured  a  single 
thought  of  blame  against  that  poor  wounded,  bleeding,  torn 
heart  for  what  seemed  like  a  hasty  attempt  at  self-murder,  it 
was  dissipated  in  a  moment  by  that  terrible  voice— the  voice  of 
a  goaded,  distractca,  uresponsible  creature,  from  whom  all  con- 
sciousness or  thought  of  right  and  wrong,  of  life  and  death,  of 
sense  and  movement,  of  motive  and  consequence,  has  been 
stunned  at  one  blow  by  some  deadly  act  of  undeserved  cruelty 
and  unexpected  wickedness. 

The  tears  ran  unchecked  in  silent  sympathy  down  the  women's 
flushed  cheeks. 

Mrs.  Eelf  leant  over  and  caught  hei  in  her  arms.  "  My  poor 
child,"  she  whispered,  laying  Elsie's  head  with  motherly  tender- 
ness on  her  own  soft  shoulder,  and  soothing  the  girl's  pallid 
white  face  with  her  gentle  old  hand,  *'  cry,  cry,  cry  if  you  can  1 
Don't  hold  back  your  tears ;  let  them  run,  darling.    It'll  do  you 


LIVE  OB  DIE? 


106 


p-nod. — C17,  cry,  my  child — we're  all  friends  here.    Don't  be 
afraid  of  us." 

Elsie  never  knew,  in  the  agony  of  the  moment,  where  she  was 
or  how  she  came  there;  but  nestling  her  head  on  Mrs.  Eelf's 
shoulder,  and  fain  of  the  sympathy  that  gentle  soul  extended  her 
PC  easily,  she  gave  free  vent  to  her  pent-up  passion,  and  let  her 
bosom  sob  itself  out  in  great  biyrsts  and  throbs  of  choking  grief ; 
while  the  two  women,  who  had  never  till  that  very  morning 
seen  her  fair  face,  cried  and  sobbed  silently  in  mute  concert  by 
her  side  for  many,  many  minutes  together. 

"Have  you  no  mother,  dear?"  Mrs.  Relf  whispered  through 
her  tears  at  last ;  and  Elsie,  finding  her  voice  with  difficulty, 
murmured  back  in  a  choked  and  blinded  tone :  "  I  never  knew 
my  mother." 

*'  Then  Edio  and  I  will  be  mother  and  sister  to  you,"  the 
beautiful  old  lady  answered,  with  a  soft  caress.  "  You  mustn't 
talk  any  more  now.  The  doctor  would  be  very,  very  angry  with 
me  for  letting  you  talk  and  cry  even  this  little  bit.  But  crying's 
good  for  one  when  one's  heart's  sore.  I  know,  my  child,  yours 
is  sore  now.  When  you're  a  great  deal  better,  you'll  tell  us  all 
about  it. — Edie,  some  more  beef-tea  and  brandy. — We've  been 
feeding  you  with  it  all  night,  dear,  with  a  wet  feather. — You 
can  drink  a  little,  I  hope,  now.  You  must  take  a  good  drink, 
and  lie  back  quietly." 

Elsie  smiled  a  fain'<  Bad  smile.  The  world  was  all  lost  and 
gone  for  her  now;  but  still  she  liked  these  dear  souls'  sweet 
quiet  sympathy.  As  Edie  glided  across  the  room  noiselessly  to 
fetch  the  cup,  and  brought  it  over  and  held  it  to  her  lips  and 
made  her  drink,  Elsie's  eyes  followed  every  motion  gratefully. 

"  Who  are  you  ?  "  she  cried,  clutching  her  new  friend's  plump 
Foft  hand  eagerly.  *'  Tell  me  where  1  am.  Who  brought  me 
here  ?    How  did  I  get  here  ?  " 

"  I'm  Edie  Eelf,"  the  girl  answered  in  the  same  low  silvery 
voice  as  before,  stooping  down  and  kissing  her.  "  You  know  my 
brother,  Warren  Relf,  the  artist  whom  you  met  at  WhitestranJ. 
You've  had  an  accident — you  fell  into  the  water — from  the 
shore  at  VVhitestraud.  And  Warren,  who  was  cruising  about 
in  his  yawl,  picked  you  up  and  brought  you  ashore  here. 
You're  at  Lowestoft  now.  Mamma  and  I  are  here  in  lodgings. 
Nobody  at  Whitestrand  knows  anything  about  it  yet,  we  believe. 
— But  darling,"  and  she  held  poor  Elsie's  hand  tight  at  this,  and 
whispered  very  low  and  close  in  her  ear, "  we  think  we  guess  all 
the  rest  too.  We  think  we  know  how  it  all  happened.— Don't 
be  afraid  of  us.  You  may  tell  it  all  to  us  by-and-by,  when 
you're  quite  strong  enough.  Mother  and  I  will  do  all  we  can  to 
make  you  better.    We  know  we  can  never  make  you  forget  it." 

Elsie's  litad  eank  back  on  the  pillow.    It  was  all  terrible — 


'U 


'  I 


106 


THIS  MORTAL   COIL. 


terrible — torriWe.  Bnt  one  thought  possessed  her  whole  nature 
now.  Hugh  must  think  she  was  really  drowned :  that  would 
grieve  Hugh — dear  affectionate  Hugh, — He  might  be  cruel 
enough  to  cast  her  off  as  he  had  done — though  she  couldn't 
believe  it — it  must  surely  be  a  hideous,  hideous  dream,  from 
which  sooner  or  later  she  would  be  certain  to  have  a  happy 
awakening — but  at  any  rate  it  must  have  driven  him  wild  with 
grief  and  remorse  and  horror  to  think  he  had  killed  her — to 
think  she  was  lost  to  him. — Oughtn't  she  to  teleg  aph  at  once 
to  Hugh — to  dear,  dear  Hugh — and  tell  him  at  least  she  was 
saved,  she  was  still  living  ? 


CHAPTER  XV. 


THE  PLAN   EXTENDS  ITSELF. 


For  three  or  four  days,  Elsie  lay  at  the  Eelfs'  lodgings  at 
Lowestoft,  seriously  ill,  but  slowly  improving;  and  all  the  time, 
Mrs.  Eelf  and  Edie  watched  over  her  tenderly  with  unceasing 
solicitude,  as  though  she  had  been  tueir  own  daughter  and  sister. 
Elsi9*s  heart  was  torn  every  moment  by  a  devouring  desire  to 
know  what  Hugh  had  done,  what  Hugh  was  doing,  what  they 
had  all  said  and  thought  about  her  at  Whitestrand.  She  never 
said  so  directly  to  the  Relfs,  of  course ;  she  couldn't  bring  her- 
self yet  to  speak  of  it  to  anybody;  but  Edie  perceived  it  intui- 
tively from  her  silence  and  her  words;  and  after  a  time,  she 
mentioned  the  matter  in  sisterly  confidence  to  her  brother 
Warren.  They  had  both  looked  in  the  local  papers  for  some 
account  of  the  accident — if  accident  it  were— and  saw,  to  their 
surprise,  that  no  note  was  tak^u  anywhere  of  Elsie's  sudden 
disappearance. 

This  was  curious,  not  to  say  ominous;  for  in  most  English 
country  villages  a  young  lady  cannot  vanish  into  space  on  a 
summer  evening,  especially  by  flinging  herself  bodily  into  the' 
sea— as  Warren  Eelf  did  not  doubt  for  a  second  Elsie  had  done 
in  the  momentary  desperation  of  a  terrible  awakening — without 
exciting  some  sort  of  local  curiosity  as  to  (vhere  she  lias  gone  or 
what  has  become  of  the  body.  We  cannot  emulate  the  calm 
social  atmosphere  of  the  Bagdad  of  the  Califs,  where  a  mys- 
terious disappearance  on  an  enchanted  carpet  aroused  but  the 
faintest  and  most  languid  passing  interest  in  the  breasts  of  the 
bystanders.  With  us,  the  enchanted  carpet  explanation  has 
fallen  out  of  date,  and  mysterious  disappearances,  however 
remarkable,  form  a  subject  rather  of  prosaic  and  prying  inquiry 


THE  PLAN  EXTENDS  ITSELF. 


107 


on  the  part  of  thone  commonplaco  and  unromantic  myrmidons, 
the  county  constabulary. 

So  the  strange  absence  of  any  allusion  in  the  Whitestrand 
news  to  what  must  needs  have  formed  a  nine  days'  wonder  in  the 
quiet  little  village,  quickened  all  Warren  Relf's  profoundest  sus- 
picions as  to  Hugh's  procedure.  At  Whitestrand,  all  they  could 
possibly  know  was  that  Miss  Challoner  was  missing — perhaps 
even  that  Miss  Challoner  had  drowned  herself.  Why  should  it 
all  be  so  unaccountably  burked,  so  strangely  hushed  up  in  the 
local  newspapers?  Why  sliould  no  report  he  divulged  any- 
where? Why  should  nobody  even  hint  in  the  Lowestoft  Times 
or  the  Ipswich  Chronicle  tliat  a  young  lady,  of  considerable 
personal  attractions,  was  unaccountably  missing  from  the  family 
of  a  well-known  Suffolk  landowner? 

Already  on  the  very  day  after  his  return  to  Lowestoft, 
Warren  Eelf  had  hastily  telegraphed  to  Hugh  Massinger  at 
Whitestrand  that  he  was  detained  in  the  Broads,  and  would  be 
unable  to  carry  out  his  long-standing  engagement  to  take  him 
round  in  the  Mud- Turtle  to  London.  But  as  time  went  on,  and 
no  news  came  from  Massinger,  Warren  lielf's  suspicions  deepened 
daily.  It  was  clear  that  Elsie,  too,  was  lingering  in  her  con- 
valescence from  8uspens3  and  uncertainty.  She  couldn't  make 
up  her  mind  to  write  either  to  Hugh  or  Winifred,  and  yet  she 
couldn't  bear  the  long  state  of  doubt  which  silence  entailed 
upon  her.  So  at  last,  to  set  to  rest  their  joint  fears,  and  to  make 
sure  what  was  really  being  said  and  done  and  thought  at 
Whitestrand,  Warren  Relf  determined  to  run  over  quietly  for 
an  afternoon's  inquiry,  and  to  hear  with  his  own  ears  how 
people  were  talking  about  the  topic  of  the  hour  in  ihe  little 
village. 

He  never  got  there,  however.  At  Almundham  Station,  to 
his  great  surprise,  he  ran  suddenly  against  Mr.  Wyville 
Meysey.  The  Squire  recogni/ied  him  at  a  glance  as  the  young 
man  who  had  taken  them  in  his  yawl  to  the  sandhills,  and 
began  to  talk  to  him  freely  at  once  about  all  that  had  since 
happened  in  the  family.  But  Relf  was  even  more  astonished 
when  he  found  that  the  subject  which  lay  uppermost  in  Mr. 
Meysey's  mind  just  then  was  not  Elsie  Challoner's  mysterious 
disappearance  at  all,  but  his  daughter  Winified's  recent  engage- 
ment to  Hugh  Massinger.  The  painter  'VaS  still  some  years  too 
young  to  have  mastered  the  proto'ind  anthropological  truth 
that,  even  with  the  best  of  us,  man  is  always  a  selt-centred 
being. 

"  Well,  yes,"  the  Squire  said,  after  a  few  commonplaces  of 
conversation  had  been  interchanged  between  them.  *-You 
haven't  heard,  then,  from  your  friend  Massinger  lately,  haven't 
you?    I'm  surprised  at  that.    Ho  had  something  out  of  the 


1? 


r  Mh 


m\ 


M 


•;        '- » 

i  '  •! 

i'   H, 


108 


THIS  MORTAL   COIL. 


common  to  communicate.  I  should  have  thought  he'd  hayo 
been  anxious  to  let  you  know  at  once  tliat  he  and  my  girl 
Winifred  had  hit  things  off  amicably  tof^ethor.— Oh  yes,  it's 
announced,  definitely  announced :  Society  is  aware  of  it.  Mrs. 
Moysey  made  it  laiowu  to  the  county,  so  to  speak,  at  Sir 
Theodore  Sheepshanks's  on  Wednesday  evening.  Your  friend 
Massinger  is  not  perliHps  quite  the  precise  man  we  might  have 
selected  ourselves  for  Winifred,  if  we'd  taken  the  choice  into 
our  own  hands :  but  what  I  say  is,  let  the  young  people  settle 
these  things  themselves— let  the  young  people  settle  them 
between  them.  It's  they  who've  got  to  live  with  one  another, 
after  all,  not  we ;  and  they're  a  great  deal  more  interested  in  it 
at  bottom,  when  one  conies  to  think  ol  it,  than  the  whole  of  the 
rest  of  us  put  together." 

"And  Miss  Challoncr  ?"  Warren  asked,  aa  soon  as  he  could 
edge  in  a  word  conveniently,  alter  the  Squire  had  dealt  from 
many  points  of  view — all  equally  prosy — with  Hugh  Massin- 
ger's  position,  character,  and  prospects — "is  she  still  with  you? 
I'm  greatly  interested  in  her.  She  made  an  immense  impres- 
sion on  me  that  day  in  the  sandhills." 

The  Squire's  face  fell  somewhat.  "Miss  Challoner?"  he 
echoed.  "  Ah,  yes;  our  governess.  Well,  to  tell  you  the  truth 
— if  you  ask  me  point-blank— Miss  Challoner's  gone  off  a  little 
suddenly. — We've  been  disappointed  in  that  girl,  if  you  will 
have  it.  We  don't  want  it  talked  about  in  the  neighbourhood 
more  than  we  can  help,  on  Hugh  Massinger's  account,  more  than 
anything  else,  because,  after  all,  she  was  u  sort  of  a  cousin  of  Ins 
— a  sort  of  a  cousin,  though  a  very  remote  one ;  as  we  learn  now, 
an  extremely  remote  one.  We've  asked  the  servants  to  hush  it 
all  up  as  much  as  they  can,  to  prevent  gossip;  fc»r  my  daughter's 
sake,  we'd  like  to  avoid  gossip ;  but  1  don't  mind  telling  you,  in 
strict  confidence,  as  you're  a  friend  of  Massinger's,  that  Miss 
Challoner  left  us,  we  all  think,  in  a  most  unkind  and  ungrateful 
manner.  It  fell  upon  us  like  a  thunderbolt  from  a  clear  sky. 
She  wrote  a  letter  to  Winifred  the  day  before  to  say  she  was 
leaving  for  parts  unknown,  without  grounds  stated.  She  slipped 
away,  like  a  thief  in  the  night,  as  the  proverb  says,  taking  just 
a  small  handbag  with  her,  one  dark  evening ;  and  the  only  other 
communication  we've  since  received  is  a  telegram  from  London 
— sent  to  Hugh  Massinger — asking  us,  in  the  most  mysterious, 
romantic  school-girlish  style,  to  forward  her  luggage  and  be- 
longings to  an  address  given." 

"A  telegram  from  London!"  Warren  Eelf  cried  in  blank 
surprise.  "Do  you  think  Miss  Challoner's  in  London,  then? 
That's  very  remarkable. — A  telegram  to  Massinger!  asking  you 
to  send  her  luggage  on  to  London  1— You're  quite  sure  it  came 
from  London,  are  you  ?  " 


THE  PLAN  EXTENDS  ITSELF. 


109 


"Quite  suro! — Why,  Tve  got  it  in  my  pocket  this  very 
moment,  my  dear  sir,"  the  Squire  replied  somewhat  testily. 
(When  an  elder  man  says '  My  dear  sir  "  to  a  very  much  younger 
one,  you  may  take  it  for  granted  he  always  means  to  mark  his 
strong  disapprobation  of  the  particular  turn  the  talk  has  taken.) 
"Here  it  is— look:  'To  Hugh  Massinger,  Fisherman's  Rest, 
Whitestrand,  Suflblk. — Ask  Winifred  to  send  the  rest  of  my 
luggage  and  property  to  27,  Holrabury  Place,  Duke  Street,  St.  ' 
James's.  Explanations  by  post  hereafter. — Elsie  Challoner.* 
— And  hero's  the  letter  she  wrote  to  Winifred :  a  very  disap- 
pointing, disheartening  letter.  I'd  like  you  to  read  it,  as  you 
seem  interested  in  the  girl.  It's  an  immense  mistake  ever  to  bo 
interested  in  anybody  anywhere !  A  very  bad  lot,  after  all,  I'm 
afraid;  though  she's  clever,  of  cou  -,e,  undeniably  clever. — We 
had  her  with  the  best  credentials,  too,  from  Girton.  We're 
only  too  thankful  now  to  think  she  should  have  associated  for 
EO  very  short  a  time  with  my  daughter  Winifred." 

Warren  Eelf  took  the  letter  and  telegram  from  the  Squire's 
hand  in  speechless  astonishment.  This  was  evidently  a  plot — 
a  dark  and  extraordinary  plot  of  Massinger's.  Just  at  first  ho 
could  hardly  unravel  its  curious  intricacies.  He  knew  the 
address  in  Holmbury  Place  well ;  it  was  where  the  club  porter 
of  the  Choyne  Bow  lived.  But  he  read  the  letter  with  utter 
bewilderment.  Then  the  whole  truth  dawned  piecemeal  upon 
his  astonished  mind  as  he  read  it  over  and  over  slowly.  It  was 
all  a  lie — a  hideous,  hateful  lie.  Hugh  Massinger  believed  that 
Elsie  was  drowned.  He  had  forged  the  letter  to  Winifred  to 
cover  the  truth,  and,  incredible  as  it  seemed  to  a  straight- 
lorward,  honest  nature  like  Warren  Eelf's,  he  had  managed  to 
get  the  telegram  sent  fiom  London  by  some  other  person,  in 
Elsie's  name,  and  to  have  Elsie's  belongings  forwarded  direct  to 
the  club  porter's,  as  if  at  her  own  request,  by  Miss  Meysey. 
Warren  Belf  stood  aghast  with  horror  at  this  unexpected  reve- 
lation of  Massinger's  utter  baseness  and  extraordinary  cunning. 
He  had  suspected  the  man  of  heartlessness  and  levity ;  he  had 
never  suspected  him  ot  anything  like  so  profound  a  capacity 
for  serious  crime — ^for  forgery  and  theft  and  concealment  of 
evidence. 

His  fingers  trembled  as  he  held  and  examined  the  two  docu- 
ments. At  all  hazards,  he  must  show  them  to  Miss  Challoner. 
It  was  right  she  should  know  herself  for  exactly  what  manner 
of  man  she  had  thrown  herself  away.  He  hesitated  a  moment, 
then  he  said  boldly :  "  These  papers  are  very  important  to  me, 
as  casting  light  on  the  whole  matter.  I'm  an  acquaintance  of 
Massinger's,  and  I'm  deeply  interested  in  the  young  lady.  It's 
highly  desirable  she  should  be  traced  and  looked  alter.  I  have 
Borne  reason  to  suspect  where  she  is  at  present.    I  want  to  ask 


I,  'f 


if-         ;«lf 


■  it's- 


I     '.  '■■a 


\i 


\  i 


111 


1    ;  :i 

!  i\. 


M 


1H 


Kt»i. 


1 


110 


THIS  MORTAL  COIL. 


a  favour  of  you  now.  Will  you  lend  me  these  documonts,  for 
throe  days  only,  and  will  you  kindly  mention  to  nobody  at 
present  the  fact  of  your  having  seen  mo  or  spoken  to  me  here 
this  morning? "    To  gain  time  at  least  was  always  something. 

The  Squire  was  somewhat  taken  aback  at  first  by  this  unex- 
pected request ;  but  Warren  Eelf  looked  so  honest  and  true  as 
he  asked  it,  that,  after  a  few  words  of  hesitation  and  explana- 
tion, the  Squire,  convinced  o;  his  friendly  intentions,  acceded  to 
both  his  propositions  at  once.  It  flashed  across  his  mind  as  a 
possible  solution  that  the  painter  had  been  pestering  Elsie  with 
too-pressing  attentions,  and  that  Elsie,  with  hysterical  girlish 
haste,  had  run  away  from  him  to  escape  them— or  perhaps  only 
to  make  him  follow  her.  Anyhcw,  there  would  be  no  great 
harm  in  his  tracking  her  down.  "If  the  girl's  in  trouble,  atid 
you  think  you  can  help  her,"  he  said  good-naturedly,  " I  dont 
mind  giving  you  what  assistance  I  can  in  this  matter.  You  can 
have  the  papers.  Send  them  back  next  week  or  the  week  after. 
I'm  going  to  Scotland  for  a  fortnight's  shooting  now— at  Far- 
quharson's  of  Invertanar — and  I  shan't  be  back  till  the  10th  or 
11th.  But  I'm  glad  somebody  has  some  idea  where  the  girl  is. 
As  it  seems  to  be  contidontial,  I'll  ask  no  questions  at  present 
about  her;  but  I  do  hope  she  hasn't  got  into  any  serious 
mischief." 

"She  has  pot  into* no  mischiof  at  all  of  any  sort,"  Warren 
Eelf  answered  slowly  and  seriously.  "  You  are  evidently 
labouring  under  a  complete  misapprehension,  Mr.  Meysey,  as  to 
bcr  reasons  for  leaving  you.  I  have  no  doubt  that  misappre- 
hension will  be  cleared  up  in  time.  Miss  Challoner's  motives, 
I  can  assure  you,  were  perfectly  right  and  proper;  only  the 
action  of  another  person  has  led  you  to  mistake  her  conduct  in 
the  matter." 

This  was  mysterious,  and  the  Squire  hated  mystery;  but 
after  all,  it  favoured  bis  theory — and  besides,  the  matter  was  to 
him  a  relatively  unimportant  one.  It  didn't  concern  his  own 
private  interest.  He  merely  suspected  Warren  Relf  of  having 
got  himself  mixed  up  in  some  foolish  love  affair  with  Elsie 
Challoner,  his  daughter's  governess,  iind  he  vaguely  conceived 
that  one  or  other  of  them  had  taken  a  very  remarkable  and 
romantic  way  of  wriggling  out  of  it.  Moreover,  at  that  precise 
moment  his  train  came  in ;  and  since  time  and  train  wait  for  no 
man,  the  Squire,  with  a  hasty  farewell  to  the  young  painter, 
installed  himself  forthwith  on  the  comfortable  cushions  of  a 
first-class  carriage,  and  steamed  unconcernedly  out  of  Almund- 
ham  Station. 

It  was  useless  for  Warren  Eelf  now  to  go  on  to  Whitcstrand. 
To  show  himself  there  would  be  merely  to  display  his  hand 
openly  before  Hugh  Massiuger.    The  caprice  of  circuniKtauccs 


FliOM  JNFOIiMATION  RECEIVED, 


111 


had  settled  everything  for  him  exactly  as  he  would  have  wished 
it.  It  was  lucky  indeed  that  tlie  Squire  would  bo  away  for  a 
whole  fortnight;  bis  absence  would  give  them  time  to  concert 
a  connected  plan  of  action,  and  to  devise  means  for  protecting 
Elsie.  For  to  Warren  Rolf  that  was  now  the  one  great  problem 
in  the  case— bow  to  hush  the  whole  matter  up,  without  exposing 
Elsie's  wounded  heart  to  daws  and' jays — without  making  bet 
the  matter  of  unnecessary  suspicion,  or  the  subject  of  common 
gossip  and  censorious  chatter.  At  all  costs,  it  must  never  bo 
said  that  Miss  Challoner  had  tried  to  drown  herself  in  spite  aTid 
jealousy  at  Whitestrand  poplar,  because  Hugh  Massinger  bad 
ventured  to  propose  to  Winifred  Mtyscy. 

That  was  how  tho  daws  and  jays  would  put  it,  after  their 
odious  kind,  over  live  o'clock  tea,  in  their  demure  drawing- 
rooms. 

What  Elsie  herself  would  say  to  it  all,  or  think  of  doing 
in  these  dillicult  circumstances,  Warren  Keif  did  not  in  tho 
least  know.  As  yet,  he  was  only  very  imperfectly  informed  as 
to  the  real  state  of  the  case  in  all  its  minor  details.  But  bo 
knew  this  much — that  he  must  screen  Elsie  at  all  hazards  from 
the  slanderous  tongues  of  five  o'clock  tea-tables,  and  that  the 
story  must  be  kept  as  quiet  as  possible,  sal'eguarded  by  himself, 
his  mother,  and  his  sister. 

So  he  took  the  next  train  back  to  Lowestoft,  to  consult  at 
leisure  on  ihese  new  proofs  of  Hugh  Massinger's  guilt  with  his 
dumestic  counsellors. 


CHAPTER  XVL 


i 


;!'i 

\\.\\ 


A 


..t' 


•111 


TROM  INFORMATION  RECEIVED. 

At  Whitestrand  itself,  that  same  afternoon,  Hugh  MaspiEgcr  eat 
in  his  own  little  parlour  at  the  village  inn,  feverish  and  eager, 
as  he  had  always  been  since  that  terrible  night  when  "  Elsie  was 
drowned,"  as  he  firmly  believed  without  doubt  or  question;  and 
in  the  bar  across  the  passage,  a  couple  of  new-comers,  rough 
waterside  characters,  were  talking  loudly  in  the  seafaring  tongue 
about  some  matter  of  their  own  over  a  pint  of  beer  and  a  pipe 
of  tobacco.  Hugh  tried  in  vain  for  many  minutes  to  interest  him- 
self in  the  concluding  verses  of  his  "Death of  Alaric" — ^anything 
for  an  escape  from  this  gnawing  remorse — but  his  Hippocrene 
was  dry,  bis  Pegasus  refused  to  budge  a  feather ;  he  could  find 
no  rhymes  and  grind  out  no  sentiments;  till, angry  with  himself 
at  last  for  his  own  unproductiveness,  he  leant  back  in  his  chair 
with  profound  annoyiiuce  and  listened  listlessly  to  the  strange 


' 


ut 


TniS  MORTAL  COIL, 


difijointed  ecbooR  of  RORRip  that  came  to  him  in  frapmcTits  through 
tlie  half-open  door  from  the  adjoining  taproom.  To  his  immense 
Burprise,  the  talk  was  not  now  of  topsails  or  of  spinnakers :  con- 
Torsation  seemed  to  have  taken  a  literary  turn ;  he  caught  moro 
than  once  through  a  haze  of  words  the  unexpected  names  of 
Cliarles  Dickens  and  Rogue  Eidorhood. 

The  oddity  of  their  occurrence  in  such  company  made  him 
prick  up  his  ears.  Ho  strained  his  hearing  to  catch  the  context. 
"  Yis,"  the  voice  was  drawling  out,  in  very  pure  Suffolk,  just 
tinged  with  the  more  metropolitan  Wapping  accent;  "I  read 
that  there  book, '  Our  Mutual  Friend,*  I  think  he  call  it.  A 
mate  o'  mine,  he  say  to  me  one  day,'  Bill,'  he  say,  *he  ha'  bin 
a-takin*  yow  off,  bor.  He  ha'  showed  yow  up  in  print,  under  the 
naame  o'  Roogue  llidenhood,'  he  say, '  and  yow  owt  to  read  it,  if 
oonly  for  the  likeness.  Blow  me  if  ho  heeu't  got  yow  what  yo 
call  proper.*  '  Yow  don't  mean  that  ?  *  T.  say,  'cos  I  thowt  he  was 
a-jookiu',  ye  know.  *  I  dew,  though,*  he  answer ; '  and  yow  must 
look  into  it.*  Well,  I  got  howd  o'  the  book,  an'  I  read  it  right 
throu';  leastways,  my  missus,  she  read  it  out  loud  to  mo;  sho 
ha'  got  more  larnin'  than  mo,  yo  know ;  and  the  whool  lot  is 
what  I  call  a  bargain  o'  squit.  It's  uoo  more  like  mo  than 
chalk's  like  cheese." 

**  The  cup  doon't  fare  to  fit  yow,  then,"  the  other  voice  retorted, 
with  a  gurgle  of  tobacco.  "He  heen't  drew  yow  soo  any  ouo 
would  know  who  it  is? " 

"  Know  mo  ?  I  should  think  not.  "What  ho  say  *s  a  parcel 
of  rubbidge.  This  here  Rooguo  Ridenhood,  accordin'  to  the 
tale,  ye  see,  he  used  to  row  about  Limehouso  Reach,  a-searchin' 
for  bodies." 

"Searchin'  for  bodies!"  the  second  man  repeated,  with  an 
incredulous  whiff.  **  Why,  what  the  deuce  and  turfy  did  ho 
want  to  do  that  for  ?  " 

"  Well,  that's  Jest  where  it  is,  doon't  ye  see?  He  done  it  for  a 
livin'.  'For  a  livin,"  I  say,  wlien  my  nussus  up  an'  read  that 
part  out  to  me;  *  why,  what  manner  o'  livin'  could  a  poor  beggar 
make  out  o*  that  ? '  I  say.  '  It  eeu't  as  though  a  body  was  wuth 
anything  nowadays,  as  a  body,*  I  say,  argityin'  like.  '  A  man 
what  knew  anything  about  the  riverside  wouldn't  a  wroot  such 
rubbidge  as  that,  an'  put  it  into  a  printed  book,  what  ought  to 
be  ackerate.  My  belief  is,'  I  say, '  that  that  there  Dickens  is  an 
ooverrated  man.  In  fact,  the  man's  a  fule.  A  body  nowadays, 
whether  it  bo  a  drownded  body  or  a  nat'ral  one,  een't  wuth 
nothin',  not  the  clothes  it  stand  upright  in,  as  a  body,'  I  put  it. 
*  Times  goon  by,'  I  say  to  bar,  *  a  body  was  actshally  a  body,  au' 
wuth  savin' for  itself,  afore  body-snatchin'  was  done  away  wooth 
by  that  there  'Natomy  Ack.  But  what  is  it  now  ?  Wuth  half 
a  crown  for  landin'  it,  paid  by  the  parish,  if  it's  lauded  in  Essex, 


IVMl 


FROM  INFORMATION  RECEIVED, 


113 


or  five  bob  if  yow  tow  it  oovcr  Surrey  sido  of  river.  Not  but 
what  I  grant  yow  tliero's  bodies  an'  bodirg.  If  a  nob  drownd 
hisBolf,  why  then,  in  course,  there's  soraetinics  or  nuich  a8  lifty 
pound,  or  maybe  a  hiindred,  set  on  the  body.  Jfis  friends  aro 
glad  to  get  the  corpse  back,  an'  prove  his  dciith,  an'  hev  it  buried 
ref,dar  in  the  family  churchyard.  Saves  a  dujil  in  lawyer's 
expenses,  that  do.  I  doon't  dei;y  but  what  they  offer  freo 
enough  for  a  nob.  But  how  many  nobs  poo  and  drownd  their- 
selves  in  a  season,  do  yow  suppose?  And  who  that  knew  any- 
thing about  the  river  would  goo  a-lookin'  for  nobs  in  Limehouso 
Iteach  or  down  about  Berniondsey  way  ?  ' " 

"  It  stand  to  reason  they  woou't,  Bill,"  the  other  voice  answered 
with  a  quiet  chuckle. 

"In  course  it  stand  to  reason,"  Bill  replied  warmly  with  an 
pmphatio  expletive.  "  When  a  nob  drownd  hisself,  he  doon't  hull 
hisself  off  London  Bridge;  no,  nor  off  Blackfriars  nather,  I 
M-arrant  ye.  He  doon't  put  hisself  out  aforehand  for  nothin* 
like  that,  takin'  a  'bus  into  the  City  out  o'  pure  fulishness.  IIo 
.i<'.st  clap  his  hat  on  liis  hid  an'  stroll  down  to  Westminister 
Bridge,  or  to  Charen  Cross  or  Waterloo— a  lot  on  'era  goo 
uover  Waterloo,  pleece  or  no  pleece ;  an*  he  jump  in  clooso  an' 
handy  to  his  own  door,  in  a  way  of  speakin',  and  a  done  wooth 
it.  But  what's  the  use  of  lookin'  for  him  arter  that  below 
bridge,  down  Limehouse  way  ?  Anybody  what  know  the  river 
know  well  enough  that  a  body  startin'  from  Waterloo,  or  maybo 
from  Westminister,  doon't  goo  down  to  Limehouse,  ebb  or  flow, 
nor  nothing  like  it.  It  get  into  the  whirlpool  off  Saunders's 
wharf,  an'  ketch  the  back-current,  and  turn  round  and  round 
till  it's  flung  up  by  the  tide,  as  yow  may  say,  upward,  on  the 
ntud  at  Milbank,  or  by  Lambeth  Stangate.  Soo  there  een't  a 
livin'  to  be  made  anyhow  by  pickin'  up  bodies  down  about 
Ijimehouse ;  an'  it's  alius  been  my  opinion  ever  since  then  that 
that  there  Dickens  is  a  very  much  ooverrated  pusson." 

"  There  een't  the  least  doubt  about  that,"  the  other  answered. 
"  If  he  said  soo,  yow  can't  be  far  wrong  there  nather." 

To  Hugh  Massinger,  sitting  apart  in  his  own  room,  these 
strange  scraps  of  an  alien  conversation  had  just  then  a  ghastly 
and  horrible  fascination.  These  men  were  accustomed,  then,  to 
drowned  corpses !  They  were  connoisseurs  in  drowning.  They 
knew  the  ways  of  bodies  like  regular  experts.  He  listened, 
spellbound,  to  catch  their  next  sentences.  There  was  a  short 
pause,  during  which — as  he  judged  by  the  way  they  breathed 
— each  took  a  long  pull  at  the  pewter  mug,  and  then  the  last 
speaker  began  again.  "Yow  owt  to  know,"  he  murmured 
musingly,  "  for  I  s'pose  there  een't  any  man  on  the  river  any- 
where what  *a  had  to  do  wooth  as  many  bodies  as  yow  hev ! " 

"  Yow're  right,  bor,"  the  first  person  assented  emphatically. 


•♦ 


1:       '1!| 

1 

114 


Tni8  MORTAL  COIL. 


"  Thutty  year  I  ha'  sawed  the  Trinity  House,  sunshine  or  rain, 
an*  yow  doon't  pervision  lightships  that  long  woothout  laniin' 
a  thing  or  two  on  the  way  about  corpsus.  The  current  carry 
'era  all  one  way  round.  A  body  what  start  on  its  jarney  at 
"Westminister,  as  it  may  be  here,  goo  ashore  at  Milbank.  A  body 
which  begin  at  London  Bridge,  come  out,  as  reglar  as  clock- 
wuck,  on  the  fudder  iud  o'  the  Isle  o'  Dogs. — It's  jest  the  same 
along  this  I. ere  east  coost.  I  picked  up  that  gal  I  ha'  come 
about  to-day  on  the  north  side  o'  the  Orfordness  Light,  by  the 
back  o'  the  Trinity  gro.viie  or  cloose  by.  A  body  which  come  up 
on  the  north  side  of  Orfordness  has  alius  drifted  down  from  tiie 
nor'-west'ard.  Soo  it  stand  to  reason  this  here  gal  I  ha'  got 
layin'  up  tliere  in  the  dead-house  must  ha'  come  wooth  the  ebb 
from  Walzerwig  or  Aldeburgh  or  maybe  Whitestrand.  There 
een't  another  way  out  of  it  anyhow.  Well,  they  towd  me  at 
Walzerwig  there  was  a  young  lady  missin'  oover  here  at  White- 
stiand — a  young  lady  from  the  Hall — a  nob,  uiver  doubt :  an'  as 
there  might  be  money  in  it,  or  agin  there  mightn't,  why,  in 
course,  I  come  up  here  to  make  all  proper  enquiries." 

Hugh  Massinger's  heart  gave  a  terrible  bound.  Oh,  heavens! 
that  things  should  have  come  to  this  pass.  That  wretch  had 
found  Elsie's  body ! 

In  what  a  tangled  maze  of  impossibilities  had  he  enmeshed 
himself  for  ever  by  that  one  false  stop  of  the  forged  letter.  This 
wretch  had  found  Elsie's  body — the  body  that  he  loved  with  all 
his  soul — and  he  could  neither  claim  it  himself  nor  look  upon 
it,  bury  it  nor  show  the  faintest  interest  in  it,  without  involving 
his  case  still  further  in  endless  complications,  and  rousing 
suspicions  of  fatal  import  against  his  own  character. 

He  waited  breathitss  for  the  next  sentence.  The  second 
speaker  went  ou  ouce  more.  "  And  it  doon't  fit  ?  "  ho  buggosted, 
inquiringly. 

"  No,  it  doon't  fit,  drot  it,"  the  man  called  Bill  answered  in  an 
impatient  tone.  "She  een't  drowuded  at  all,  wuss  luck,  the 
young  lady  what's  missin'  from  the  Hall.  They  ha'  had  letters 
an'  talegraphs  from  bar,  dated  later'n  the  day  I  found  bar.  I 
ha'  handed  oover  the  body  to  the  county  pleece ;  it's  in  the  dead- 
house  at  the  Low  Light :  an'  I  shan't  hev  noo  more  than  half  a 
crown  from  the  parish  arter  all  lor  all  my  trouble.  Suflblk  an* 
Essex  are  half  a  crown  counties ;  Surrey's  ni'.re  liberal ;  it  goo 
to  five  bob  ou  'em.  Why,  I'm  more'u  eight  shillins  out  o' 
pocket  by  that  there  gal  a'ready,  what  wooth  loss  o'  time  an' 
travelliu'  expenses  an'  soo  on.  Next  time  I  ketch  a  body  knockin* 
about  on  a  lee  shore,  wooth  tlio  tide  runnin',  au'  tlio  breakers 
poundin*  it  on  its  face  on  the  shingle,  they  may  whistle  for  it 
theirselves,  that's  what  they  may  doo ;  I  een't  a-gooin'  to  trouble 
my  hid  about  it.   Make  a  liviu'  out  on  it,  ijidoed  I   Why,  it's  all 


m 


BREAKING  A  HEART. 


116 


rubbidge,  nothin'  more  or  less.  It's  my  opinion  that  there 
Dickens  is  a  very  much  ©overrated  pussou." 

Hugh  Massinger  rose  slowly,  like  one  stunned,  walked  across 
the  room,  as  in  a  dream,  to  the  door,  closed  it  noiselessly,  for  he 
could  contain  himself  no  longer,  and  then,  bur^'iug  his  face 
silently  in  his  arms,  cried  to  himself  a  long  and  bitter  cry,  the 
tears  following  one  another  hot  and  fast  down  his  burning 
cheeks,  while  his  throat  was  choked  by  a  rising  ball  that  seemed 
to  check  his  breath  and  impede  the  utterance  of  his  stifled  sobs. 
Elsie  was  dead,  dead  for  him  as  if  he  had  actually  seen  her 
drowned  body  cast  up,  unknown,  as  the  man  so  hideously  and 
graphically  described  it  in  his  callous  brutality,  upon  the  long 
spit  of  the  Orfordness  lighthouse.  He  didn't  for  one  moment 
doubt  that  it  was  she  indeed  whom  the  fellow  had  found  and 
placed  in  the  mortuary.  His  own  lie  reacted  fatally  against 
himself.  He  had  put  others  on  a  false  track,  and  now  the  false 
track  misled  his  own  spirit.  From  that  day  forth,  Elsie  was 
indeed  dead,  dead,  dead  for  him.  Alive  in  reality,  and  for  all 
else  save  him,  she  was  dead  for  him  as  though  he  had  seen  her 
buried.  And  yet,  most  terrible  irony  of  all,  lie  must  still  pre- 
tend before  all  the  world  stieiiuously  and  ceaselessly  to  believe 
her  living.  He  must  never  in  a  single  forgetful  moment  display 
his  grief  and  remorse  for  the  past ;  his  sorrow  for  the  loss  of  the 
one  woman  he  had  really  loved — and  basely  betrayed ;  his  pro- 
found affection  for  her  now  she  was  gone  and  lost  to  him  for 
ever.  He  dare  not  even  inquire — for  the  present  at  least — 
where  she  would  be  laid,  or  what  would  be  done  with  her  poor 
dishonoured  and  neglected  corpse.  It  must  be  buried,  un- 
heeded, in  a  pauper's  nameless  grave,  by  creatures  as  base  and 
cruel  as  the  one  who  had  discovered  it  tossing  on  the  shore,  and 
regarded  it  only  as  a  lucky  find  to  make  half  a  crown  out  of. 

Hugh's  inmost  soul  was  revolted  at  the  thought.    And  yet 

And  yet,  even  so,  he  was  not  man  enough  to  go  boldly  down  to 
Orfordness  and  claim  and  rescue  that  sacred  corpse,  as  ho  truly 
and  firmly  believed  it  to  be,  of  Elsie  Chal  loner's.  He  meant  still 
in  his  craven  soul  to  stand  well  with  the  world,  and  to  crown  his 
perfidy  by  marrying  Wiuilred. 


■-  ■  ![ 

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II 


t. 
ill 


CHAPTER  XVII. 


BREAKING  A  HEART. 


When  Warren  Rolf  returned  to  Lowestoft,  burning  with  news 
and  eager  at  his  luck,  his  first  act  was  to  call  his  sister  Edio 
hurriedly  out  of  Elsie's  room,  and  proceed  to  a  consultation 


!''! 


116 


THIS  MORTAL  COIL. 


with  her  upon  the  strange  evidence  he  had  picked  np  so  unex- 
pectedly at  Almundham  Station.  Should  they  show  it  to  Elsie, 
or  should  they  keep  it  from  her  ?  That  was  the  question.  For- 
tune had  indeed  favoured  the  brave ;  but  how  now  to  utilize 
her  curious  information  ?  Should  they  let  that  wronged  and 
suffering  girl  see  the  utter  abysses  of  human  baseness  yawning 
in  the  man  she  once  loved  and  trusted,  or  should  they  sedulously 
and  carefully  hide  it  all  from  her,  lest  they  break  the  bruised 
reed  with  their  ungentle  handling  ?  Warren  Eelf  himself,  after 
thinking  it  over  in  his  own  soul — all  the  way  back  to  Lowestoft 
in  his  third-class  carriage — was  almost  in  favour  now  of  the 
specious  and  futile  policy  of  concealment.  Why  needlessly 
harrow  the  poor  child's  feelings?  Why  rake  up  the  embers  of 
her  great  grief?  Surely  she  had  been  wounded  and  lacerated 
enough  already.  Let  her  rest  content  with  what  she  knew  so 
fur  of  Massinger's  cruel  and  treacherous  selfishness. 

But  Edie  met  this  plausible  reasoning,  after  a  true  women's 
fashion,  with  an  emphatic  negative.  She  stood  out  for  the 
truth,  the  whole  truth,  and  nothing  but  the  truth,  come  what 
might  of  it. 

*'  Why  ?  "  Warren  asked  with  a  relenting  eye. 

" Because,"  Edie  answered,  looking  up  at  him  resolutely,  "it 
would  be  better  she  should  get  it  ail  over  at  once.  It's  like 
pulling  a  tooth— one  wrench,  and  be  done  with  it!  What  a  pity 
she  should  spend  her  whole  life  long  in  mourning  and  wailing 
over  this  wicked  man,  who  isn't  and  never  was  in  any  way 
worthy  of  her  ! — Warren,  she's  a  dear,  sweet,  gentle  girl.  She 
takes  my  heart.  I  love  her  dearly  already. — She'll  mourn  and 
wail  for  him  enough  anyhow.  I  want  to  disenchant  her  as 
much  as  I  can  before  it's  too  late.  The  sooner  she  learns  to 
hate  and  despise  him  as  he  deserves,  the  better  for  everybody." 

*'  Why  ?  "  Warren  asked  once  more,  with  a  curious  side-glance. 

"  Because,"  Edie  went  on,  very  earnestly,  "  she  may  some  day 
meet  some  other  better  man,  who  could  make  hev  ton  thousand 
times  happier  as  his  wife,  than  this  wretclied,  sordid,  money- 
hunting  creature  could  ever  make  any  one.  If  we  disenchant 
her  at  once,  without  remorse,  it'll  help  that  better  man's  case 

forward  whenever  he  presents  himself.    If  not '  She  paused 

significantly.   Their  e>os  met;  Warren's  fell.    They  understood 
one  another, 

'*  But  isn't  it  selfish  ?  "  Warren  asked  wistfully. 

Edie  looked  up  at  him  with  a  profoundly  meaningless  ex- 
pression on  her  soft  round  face.  *' Selfish! "  she  cried,  making 
her  mouth  small.  *'  1  don't  understand  you.  AVhat  on  earth 
has  selfishness  to  do  with  it  any  way  ?  Nobody  spoke  about 
any  particular  truer  and  better  man.  You  jump  too  quick.  I 
merely  laid  on  a  young  man  in  the  abstract.    From  the  point  of 


BREAKING  A  EEABl'. 


117 


view  of  a  young  man  in  the  abst;  net,  I'm  sure  I'm  right,  abso- 
lutely right.  I  always  am.  It's  a  way  1  have,  and  I  can't 
help  it." 

*' Besides  which,"  Warren  Eelf  interposed  f,uddenly,  "if  Mas- 
singer  really  did  write  that  forged  letter,  she'll  have  to  arrange 
something  about  it,  you  see,  sooner  or  later.  She'll  want  to  set 
herself  right  with  the  Meyseys,  of  course,  and  she'll  probably 
make  some  sort  of  representation  or  proposition  to  Massinger." 

"  She'll  do  nothing  of  the  kind,  my  dear,"  Edie  answered 
promptly  with  brisk  confidence. — "  You're  a  goose,  Warren,  and 
you  don't  one  tiny  littie  bit  understand  the  inferior  creatures. 
You  men  always  think  you  know  instinctively  all  about  us 
women,  and  can  read  us  through  and  thiough  at  a  single  glance, 
as  if  we  were  large  print  on  a  street-poster ;  while,  as  a  matter 
of  fact,  you  never  really  see  an  inch  deep  below  the  surface. — 
I'll  tell  you  what  she'll  do,  you  great  blind  creature :  she'll  accept 
the  forgery  as  if  it  were  in  actual  fact  her  own  letter ;  she'll 
never  write  a  word,  for  good  or  for  evil,  to  contradict  it  or 
confirm  it,  to  any  of  these  horrid  Whitestrand  people;  she'll 
allow  this  hateful  wretch  Massinger  to  go  on  believing  she's 
really  dead ;  and  she'll  cease  to  exist,  as  far  as  he's  concerned, 
in  a  passive  sort  of  way,  henceforth  and  for  ever." 

"  Will  she?  "  Warren  Eelf  asked  dubiously.  "  How  on  earth 
do  you  know  what  she'll  do,  Edie  ?  " 

"Why,  what  else  on  earth  could  she  do,  silly?"  his  sister 
answered,  with  the  same  perfect  conviction  in  her  own  iubred 
sagacity  and  perspicacity  as  ever.  "  Could  she  go  and  say  to 
him,  with  tears  in  her  eyes  and  a  becoming  smile  on  her  pretty 
little  lips :  *  My  own  heart's  darling,  I  love  you  devotedly — and 
I  know  you  signed  my  name  to  that  forged  letter  ? '  Could  she 
fling  herself  on  these  Moxies,  or  Mumpsies,  or  Mixies,  or  Meyseys, 
or  whatever  else  you  call  them,  and  say  sweetly :  *  I  didn't  run 
away  from  you ;  I  wasn't  in  earnest  ?  I  only  tried  ineffectually 
to  drown  myself,  for  love  of  this  dear,  sweet,  charming,  poetical 
cousin  of  mine,  who  disgracefully  jilted  me  in  order  to  propose 
to  your  own  daughter ;  and  then,  believing  me  to  have  killed 
myself  for  shame  and  sorrow,  has  trumped  up  letters  and 
telegrams  in  my  name,  of  malice  prepense,  on  purpose  to 
deceive  you.  He's  a  mean  scoundrel,  and  I  hate  his  very  name ; 
and  I  want  him  for  myself;  so  I  won't  allow  him  to  marry  your 
Winifred,  or  whatever  else  her  precious  new-fangled  high-falut- 
ing  name  may  be.*  Could  any  woman  on  earth  so  utterly  efi'aco 
herself  and  her  own  womanliness  as  to  go  and  say  all  that,  do 
you  suppose,  to  anybody  anywhere? — You  may  think  so  in  your 
heart,  I  dare  say,  my  dear  boy;  but  you  won't  get  a  solitary 
woman  in  the  world  to  agree  with  you  on  the  point  for  ono 
single  minute.'' 


11 

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118 


THIS  MOETAL   COIL. 


The  painter  (h'ew  his  hand  slowly  across  his  cold  brow.  "  I 
suppose  you're  rij^ht,  Edie,"  he  answered,  bewildered.  "But 
what'll  she  do  with  herself,  then,  I  wonder?" 

"  Do  ?  *■  Edie  echoed.  "  As  if  do  were  the  word  for  it ?  "Why, 
do  nothing,  of  course— be ;  suffer ;  exist ;  mourn  over  it.  She'd 
like,  if  she  could,  poor,  tender,  bruised,  broken-hearted  thing,  to 
creep  into  a  hole,  with  her  head,  hanging  down,  and  die  quietly, 
like  a  wounded  creature,  with  no  one  on  earth  to  worry  or 
bother  her.  She  mustn't  die ;  but  she  won't  do  anything.  All 
we've  got  to  do  ourselves  is  just  to  comfort  her :  to  be  silent  and 
comfort  her.  She'll  cease  to  live  now;  she'll  annihilate  herself; 
she'll  retire  from  life ;  and  that  horrid  man'U  think  she's  dead  ; 
and  that'll  bo  all.  She'll  accept  the  situation.  She  won't  ex- 
pose him ;  she  loves  him  too  much  a  great  deal  for  that.  She 
won't  expose  herself;  she's  a  great  deal  too  timid  and  shrinking 
and  modest  foi  that.  She'll  leave  things  alone ;  that's  all  she 
can  do. — And  on  the  whole,  my  dear,  if  you  only  know,  it's 
really  and  truly  the  best  thing  possible." 

So  Edie  took  the  letter  and  te'egram  pitifully  in  her  hand,  and 
went  with  what  boldness  she  could  muster  up  into  Elsie's  bedroom. 
Elsie  was  lying  on  the  sofa,  propped  up  on  pillows,  in  the  white 
dress  she  had  worn  all  along,  and  with  her  face  and  hands  as 
white  as  the  dress  stuff;  and  as  Edie  held  the  incriminating 
documents,  part  hidden  in  her  gown,  to  keep  them  from  Elsie,  she 
felt  like  the  dentist  who  hides  behind  his  back  the  cruel  wrench- 
ing instrument  with  which  he  means  next  moment  in  one  fierce 
tug  to  drag  and  tear  your  very  nerves  out.  She  stooped  down 
and  kissed  Elsie  tenderly.  "  Well,  darling,"  she  said — for 
illness  makes  women  wonderfully  intimate — "  Warren's  come 
back. — Where  do  you  think  he's  been  ?— He's  been  over  to-day 
as  far  as  Almundham." 

"  Almundham ! "  Elsie  repeated,  with  cheek  more  blanched 
and  pale  than  ever.  "  Why,  what  was  he  doing  over  there  to- 
day, dear?    Did  he  hear  anything  about — about W^ere 

they  all  inquiring  after  me,  I  wonder  ? — Was  there  a  great  deal 
of  talk  and  gossip  abroad  ? — Oh,  Edie,  tell  me  quick  all  about  it  1 " 

"  No,  darling,"  Edie  answered,  pressing  her  hand  tight,  and 
signing  to  her  mother,  who  sat  by  the  bed,  to  clasp  the  other 
one;  "  nobody's  talking.  You  shall  not  bo  discussed.  Warren 
met  Mr.  Meysey  himself  at  the  Almundham  Station ;  and  Mr. 
Meysey  was  going  to  Scotland;  and  he  said  they'd  hoard  from 
you  twice  already,  to  explain  it  all ;  and  nobody  seemed  to  think 
that — that  anything  serious  in  any  way  had  happened." 

"  Heard  from  me  twice ! "  Elsie  cried,  puzzled.  "  Heard  from 
me  twice — to  explain  it  all  1  Why,  what  on  earth  did  he  mean, 
Edie  ?    There  must  be  some  strange  mistake  somewhere." 

Edie  leant  over  hor  with  tears  m  her  eyes.    It  was  a  horribb 


t 
h 
b 

S, 


BREAKING  A  HEART. 


119 


wrench,  but  come  it  must,  and  the  sooner  tlic  better.  They 
should  understand  where  they  stood  at  once.  "  No,  no  mistake, 
darling,'  she  answered  distinctly.  "  Mr.  Meysey  gave  Warren 
the  letter  to  read. — He's  brought  it  back.  I've  got  it  hero  for 
you.  It's  in  your  own  hand,  ho  says. — Would  you  like  to  see  it 
this  moment,  darling  ?  " 

Elsie's  cheek  showed  pale  as  death  now ;  but  she  summoned 
up  courage  to  murmur  "  Yes." 

It  seemed  the  mere  unearthly  ghost  of  a  yes,  so  hollow  and 
empty  was  it;  but  she  forced  it  out  somehow,  and  took  the 
letter.  Edie  watched  her  with  bent  brows  and  trembling  lips. 
How  would  she  take  it?  Would  she  see  what  it  meant? 
Would  she  know  who  wrote  it?    Could  she  ever  believe  it  ? 

Elsie  gazed  at  it  in  dumb  astonishment.  So  admirable  was 
the  imitation,  that  for  a  moment's  space  she  actually  thought  it 
was  her  own  handwriting.  She  scanned  it  close.  "  My  darling 
Winifred,"  it  began  as  usual,  and  in  her  own  hand  too.  Why, 
this  must  be  just  an  old  letter  of  her  own  to  her  friend  and 
l)upil ;  what  possible  connection  could  Mr.  Meysey  or  Mr.  Keif 
imagine  it  had  with  the  present  crisis?  But  then  the  date — the 
date  was  so  curious:  "September  17," — that  fatal  evening! 
She  glanced  through  it  all  with  a  burning  eye.  Great  heavens, 
what  was  this?  "So  wicked,  so  ungrateful:  I  know  Mrs. 
Meysey  will  never  forgive  me." — "  By  the  time  this  reaches  you 
1  shall  have  left  Wiiitestrand,  I  fear  for  ever."  "  Darling,  for 
heaven's  sake,  do  try  to  hush  this  up  as  much  as  you  can." — 
"  Ever  your  affectionate,  but  broken-hearted  Elsie." 

A  gasp  burst  from  her  bloodless  lips.  She  laid  ix,  down,  with 
both  hands  on  her  heart.  That  signature,  Elsie,  betrayed  the 
whole  truth.  She  was  white  as  a  sheet  now,  and  trembling 
visibly  from  head  to  foot.  But  she  would  go  right  through  with 
it;  she  would  not  tliuch;  she  would  know  it  all— all — all, 
utterly. 

"  I  never  wrote  it,"  she  cried  to  Edie  with  a  choking  voice. 

"  I  know  you  didn't,  darling,"  Edie  whispered  in  her  ear. 

**  And  you  know  who  did  ?  "  Elsie  sobbed  out,  terrified. 

Elsie  nodded.  "I  know  who  did — at  least,  I  suspect. — Cry, 
dariing,  cry.  Never  mind  us.  Don't  burot  your  poor  heart  lor 
want  of  crying." 

But  Elsio  couldn't  cry  yet.  She  put  her  white  hand,  trem- 
bling, into  her  open  bosom,  and  pulled  out  slowly,  with  long 
lingering  reluctance— a  tiny  bundle  of  water-stained  letters. 
They  were  Hugh's  letters,  that  she  had  worn  at  her  breast  on 
that  terrible  night.  She  had  dried  them  all  carefully  one  by  one 
here  in  bed  at  Lowestoft;  and  she  kept  them  still  next  the 
broken  heart  that  Hugh  had  so  lightly  sacriticed  to  mammon. 
Smudged  and  half-erased  by  immersion  as  they  were,  she  could 


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120 


THIS  MORTAL  COIL. 


still  read  them  in  their  blurred  condition ;  and  sho  knew  them 
by  heart  already,  for  the  matter  of  that,  if  the  water  had  made 
them  quite  illegible. 

She  drew  the  last  one  out  of  its  envelope  with  reverent  care, 
and  laid  it  down  side  by  side  with  the  forged  letter  to  Winifred. 
Paper  for  paper,  they  answered  exactly,  in  size  and  shape  and 
glaze  and  quality.  Hugh  had  often  shown  her  how  admirably 
he  could  imitate  any  particular  handwriting.  The  suspicion 
was  profound;  but  she  would  give  him  at  least  tiie  full  benefit 
of  all  possible  doubts.  She  held  it  up  to  the  light  and  examined 
tho  water-mark.  Both  were  identical — au  unusual  paper; 
bought  at  a  fantastic  stationer's  in  Brighton.  It  was  driving 
daggers  into  her  own  heart;  but  she  would  go  right  through 
with  it :  she  must  know  the  truth.  She  gave  a  great  gasp,  and 
then  took  three  other  letters  singly  from  the  packet.  Horror 
and  dismay  were  awakening  within  her  the  instincts  and  ideas 
of  an  experienced  detective.  They  were  the  three  previous 
letters  she  had  last  received  from  Hugh,  in  regular  order.  A 
stain  caused  by  a  drop  of  milk  or  grease,  as  often  happens,  ran 
right  through  the  entire  quire.  It  was  biggest  on  the  front 
page  of  the  earliest  letter,  and  smallest  and  dimmest  on  its  back 
riy-leaf.  It  went  on  decreasing  gradually  by  proportionate 
gradations  through  the  other  three.  She  looked  at  the  letter  to 
Winifred  with  tearless  eyes.  It  corresi)ouded  exactly  in  every 
respect;  for  it  had  been  the  fifth  and  middle  sheet  of  the 
original  series. 

Elsie  laid  them  all  down  on  the  sofa  by  her  side  with  an 
exhausted  air  and  turned-wearily  to  Edie.  Her  face  was  flushed 
and  feverish  at  last.  She  said  nothing,  but  leaned  back  with  a 
ghastly  sob  on  her  pillow.  She  knew  to  a  certainty  now  it  was 
Hugh  who  had  done  this  nameless  thing — Hugh  who  had  dono 
it,  believing  her,  his  lover,  to  be  drowned  and  dead— Hugh  who 
had  done  it  at  the  very  moment  when,  as  he  himself  supposed, 
her  lifeless  body  was  tossing  and  dancing  among  the  mad 
breakers,  that  roared  and  shivered  with  unholy  joy  over  tlio 
hoarse  sandbanks  of  the  bar  at  Whitcstiand.  It  was  past  belief 
— but  it  was  Hugh  who  had  done  it. 

She  could  have  forgiven  him  almost  anything  else  pave  that ; 
but  tJiat,  never,  ten  thousand  times  never  I  She  could  have  for- 
given him  even  his  cold  and  cruel  speech  that  last  night  by  the 
river  near  the  poj)lar :  "  I  have  never  been  engaged  to  you.  I 
owe  you  nothing.  And  now  I  mean  to  marry  Winifred."  Sho 
could  have  forgiven  him  all,  in  the  depth  of  her  despair. — She 
could  have  loved  him  still,  even— so  profound  is  the  power  of 
first-love  in  a  true  pure  woman's  inmost  nature — if  only  she 
could  have  believed  ho  had  melted  and  repented  in  sackcloth  and 
ashes  for  his  sin  and  her  sorrow.    If  he  had  lost  his  life  in 


BUEAKINa  A  HEART. 


m 


d 
a 


trying  to  save  her!  If  he  had  roused  the  county  to  search  for 
hor  body  I  Nay,  even  if  he  had  merely  gone  home,  rotiiorseful 
and  self-reproacliing,  and  had  proclaimed  the  truth  and  his  own 
shameinanagopy  of  regret  and  pity  and  bereavement.— For  her 
own  Bake,  she  was  glad,  indeed,  he  had  not  done  all  this ;  or  at 
leawt  she  would  perliaps  have  been  glad  if  she  had  had  the  heart 
to  think  of  herself  at  all  at  such  a  moment.  But  for  him— for 
him — she  was  ashamed  aud  horrified  and  stricken  dumb  to 
learn  it. 

For,  instead  of  all  this,  what  nameless  and  unspeakable  thing 
had  Hugh  Massinger  really  done  ?  Gone  home  to  the  inn,  at  the 
very  moment  when  she  lay  tliere  senseless,  the  prey  cf  the 
waves,  that  tossed  her  about  like  a  plaything  on  their  cruel 
crests — gone  home  to  the  inn,  and  without  one  thought  of  her, 
one  effort  to  rescue  her — for  how  could  bhe  think  otherwise  ? — 
full  only  of  vile  and  craven  fears  for  his  own  safety,  sat  down  at 
his  desk  and  deliberately  forged  in  alien  handwriting  that 
embodied  Lie,  that  visible  and  tangible  documentary  Meanness, 
tiiat  she  saw  staring  her  in  the  face  from  the  paper  before  her ! 
It  was  ghastly ;  it  was  incredible ;  it  was  past  conception ;  but 
it  was,  nevertheless,  the  simple  fact.  As  she  floated  insensible 
down  that  hideous  current,  for  the  sea  and  the  river  to  fight 
over  her  blanched  corpse,  the  man  she  had  loved,  the  man  who 
had  so  long  pretended  to  love  her,  had  been  quietly  engaged  in 
his  own  room  in  forging  her  name  to  a  false  and  horrible  and 
misleading  letter,  which  might  cover  her  with  shame  in  the 
unknown  grave  to  which  his  own  cruelty  and  wickedness  and 
callousness  had  seemingly  consigned  her!  No  wonder  the  tears 
stood  back  unwillingly  from  her  burning  eyeballs.  For  grief 
and  horror  and  misery  like  hers,  no  relief  can  be  found  in  mere 
hysterical  weeping. 

And  who  had  done  this  heartless,  this  dastardly,  this  impos- 
sible thing?  Hugh  Massinger — her  cousin  Hugh — the  man  she 
liad  set  on  such  a  pinnjjclG  of  goodness  and  praise  and  affection — 
the  man  she  had  worshipped  with  her  whole  full  heart — the  man 
she  had  accepted  as  the  very  incarnation  of  all  that  was  truest 
and  noblest  and  best  and  most  beautiful  in  human  nature.  Her 
idol  was  dethroned  from  its  shrine  now ;  and  in  the  empty  niclie 
from  which  it  had  cast  itself  prone,  she  had  nothing  to  set  up 
instead  for  worship.  There  was  not,  and  there  never  had  been, 
a  Hugh.  The  universe  swam  like  a  frightful  blank  around  her. 
The  sun  had  darkened  itself  at  once  in  her  sky.  The  solid 
ground  seemed  to  fail  beneath  her  feet,  and  she  felt  herself 
suspended  alone  above  an  awful  abyss,  a  seething  and  tossing 
and  eddying  abyss  of  utter  chaos. 

Edie  Keif  held  her  hand  still ;  while  the  sweet  gentle  motherly 
old  lady  with  the  snow-white  hair  aud  the  tender  eyes  put  a  cold 


;iil, 


wm 


I 


I'll 


122 


THIS  MORTAL  COIL, 


palra  up  against  lier  burning  brow  to  help  her  to  bear  it.  But 
Elsie  was  hardly  aware  of  either  of  them  now.  Hi;r  head  swam 
wildly  round  and  round  in  a  horrible  phantasmagoria,  of  which 
the  Hugh  that  was  not  and  that  never  had  been  formed  the 
central  pivot  and  main  revolving  point;  while  the  Hugh  that 
was  just  reveajing  himself  utterly  in  his  inmost  blackness  and 
vileness  and  nothingness  whirled  round  and  round  that  fixed 
centre  in  a  mad  career,  she  knew  not  how,  and  she  asked  not 
wherefore.  "  Cry,  cry,  darling,  do  try  to  cry,"  both  the  other 
women  urged  upon  her  with  sobs  and  tears ;  but  Elsie's  eyeballs 
were  hard  and  tearless,  and  her  heart  stood  still  every  moment 
within  her  with  unspeakable  awe  and  horror  and  incredulity. 

Presently  she  stretched  out  a  vague  hand  towards  Edie. 
"  Give  me  the  telegram,  dear,"  she  said  in  a  cold  hard  voice,  as 
cold  and  hard  as  Hugh  Massinger's  own  on  that  feaii'ol  evening. 

Edie  handed  it  to  her  withoul:  a  single  word. 

She  looked  at  it  mechanically,  her  lips  set  tight;  then  she 
asked  in  the  same  cold  metallic  tone  as  before :  "  Do  you  know 
anything  of  27,  Holm  bury  Place,  Duke  Street,  St.  James's  ?  " 

"  Warren  says  the  club  porter  of  the  Cheyne  Kow  lives  there," 
Edie  answered  softly. 

Elsie  fell  back  upon  her  pillows  once  more.  "  Edie,"  she  cried, 
*'  oh,  Edie,  Edie,  hold  me  tight,  or  I  shall  sink  and  die  ! — If  only 
he  had  been  cruel  and  nothing  more,  I  wouldn't  have  minded 
it;  indeed,  t  wouldn't.  But  that  he  should  bo  so  cowardly,  so 
mean,  so  unworthy  of  himself— it  kills  me,  it  kills  me — 1  couldn't 
have  believed  it!" 

"  Kiss  her,  mother,"  Edie  whispered  low.  "  Kiss  her,  and  lay 
her  head,  so,  upon  your  dear  old  shoulder!  She's  going  to  cry 
now!  I  know  she's  going  to  cry!  Pat  her  cheek  :  yes,  so.  If 
only  she  can  cry,  she  can  let  her  heart  out,  and  it  wou't  quite 
kill  her." 

At  the  words,  Elsie  found  the  blersed  relief  of  tears ;  they  ro'O 
to  her  eyes  in  a  torrent  flood.  She  cried  and  cried  as  if  her 
heart  would  burst.  But  it  eased  her  somehow.  The  two  other 
women  cried  in  sympathy,  holding  her  hands,  and  encouraging 
her  to  let  out  her  pent-up  emotions  to  the  very  full  by  that 
natural  outlet.  They  cried  together  silently  for  many  minutes. 
Then  Elsie  pressed  their  two  hands  with  a  convulsive  grasp ;  and 
they  knew  she  would  live,  and  that  the  shock  had  not  entirely 
killed  out  the  woman  within  her. 

An  hour  later,  when  Edie,  with  eyes  very  red  and  swollen,  went 
out  once  more  into  the  little  front  parlour  to  fetch  some  needle- 
work, Warren  Eelf  intercepted  her  with  eager  questioning. 
*'  How  is  she  now  ?  "  he  asked  with  an  anxious  face.  "  Is  she 
very  ill  ?    And  how  did  she  take  it  ?  " 

"She's  crying  her  eyes  out,  thank  heaven,"  Edie  answered 


COMPLICATIONS, 


123 


fervently.  "  And  it's  broken  her  heart.  It's  almost  killed  her, 
but  not  quite.  Shu's  crushed  and  lacerated  like  a  wounded 
creature." 

"  But  what  will  she  do  ?  "  Warren  asked,  with  a  wistful  look. 

"Do?  Just  what  1  said.  Nothing  at  all.  Annihilate  and 
efface  herself.  She'll  accept  the  position,  leaving  things  exactly 
where  that  wretched  being  has  managed  to  put  them ;  and  so 
far  as  he's  concerned,  she'll  drop  altogether  out  of  existence." 

"How?" 

"  Slie'll  go  with  mamma  and  me  to  San  Remo." 

"AndtheMeyseys?" 

"  She'll  leave  them  to  form  their  own  conclusiona.  Henceforth, 
she  prefers  to  be  simply  nobody." 


'il     " 

m 

% 

ii 


CHAPTER  XVIIL 


ii 


COMPMOATIONS. 

Elsie  gpcnt  a  full  fortniglit,  or  even  more,  at  Lowestoft ;  and 
before  she  vacated  her  hospitable  quarters  in  the  Relfs'  rooms,  it 
was  quite  understood  between  them  all  that  she  was  to  follow 
out  the  simple  plan  of  action  so  hastily  sketched  by  Edio  to 
^Varren.  Elsie's  one  desire  now  was  to  escape  observation. 
Eyes  seemed  to  peer  at  her  from  every  corner.  SI)e  wanted  to 
fly  for  ever  from  Hugh— from  that  Hugh  who  had  at  last  so 
unconsciously  revealed  to  her  the  inmost  depths  of  his  own 
abject  and  self-centred  nature;  and  she  wanted  to  be  saved  the 
hideous  necessity  for  explaining  to  others  what  only  the  three 
Relfs  at  present  knew — the  way  she  had  come  to  leave  White- 
strand.  Hungering  for  sympathy,  as  women  will  hunger  in  a 
preat  sorrow,  she  had  opened  to  Edie,  bit  by  bit,  the  floodgates 
of  her  grief,  and  told  piecemeal  the  whole  of  her  painful  and 
pitiable  story.  In  her  own  mind,  Elsie  was  free  from  the 
reproach  of  an  attempt  at  self-murder;  and  Edie  and  Mrs.  Relf 
accepted  in  good  faitli  the  poor  heart-broken  girl's  account  of 
her  adventure ;  but  she  could  never  hope  that  the  outer  world 
could  be  induced  to  believe  in  her  asserted  innocence.  She 
dreaded  the  nods  and  hints  and  suspicions  and  innuendoes  of 
our  bitter  society;  she  shrank  from  exposing  herself  to  its 
sneers  or  its  sympathy,  each  almost  equally  distasteful  to  her 
delicate  nature.  She  was  threatened  with  the  pillory  of  a  news- 
paper paragraph.  Hugh  Massinger's  lie  afforded  her  now  an 
easy  chance  of  escape.  She  accepted  it  willingly,  without  after- 
thought.   All  she  wanted  in  her  trouble  was  to  hide  her  poor 


\ 


Sli:     :1 


124 


THIS  MORTAL   COIL, 


y 


Y 


B: 


li 


head  where  nono  would  find  it;  and  Edie  Eelfs  plan  enabled 
hor  to  do  this  in  the  surest  and  safest  possible  manner. 

Besides,  she  didn't  wish  to  make  Winifred  unhappy.  Winifred 
loved  her  cousin  Hugh.  She  saw  that  now ;  she  recognized  it 
distinctly.  She  wondered  she  hadn't  seen  it  plainly  long  before. 
Winifred  had  often  been  so  full  of  Hugh ;  had  asked  so  many 
questions,  had  seemed  so  deeply  interested  in  all  that  concerned 
him.  And  Hugh  had  oflfored  his  heart  to  Winifred~-be  the  same 
more  or  less,  he  had  at  least  offered  it.  Why  should  she  wish  to 
wreck  Winifred's  life,  as  that  cruel,  selfish,  ambitious  man  had 
wrecked  her  own?  She  couldn't  toll  the  whole  truth  now 
without  exposing  Hugh.  And  for  Winifred's  sake  at  least  she 
would  not  expose  him,  and  blight  Winifred's  dream  at  the  very 
moment  of  its  tirst  full  ecstasy. 

For  Winifred's  sake  ?  Nay,  rather  for  his  own.  For  in  spite 
of  everything,  she  still  loved  him.  She  could  never  forgive  him, 
but  she  still  loved  him.  Or  if  she  didn't  love  tho  Hugh  that 
really  was,  she  loved  at  least  the  memory  of  the  Hugh  that  was 
not  and  that  never  had  been.  For  his  dear  sake,  she  could  never 
expose  that  other  base  creature  that  bore  his  name  and  wore  his 
features.  For  her  own  love's  sake,  she  could  never  betray  him. 
For  her  womanly  consistency,  for  her  sense  of  identity,  she 
couldn't  turn  round  and  tell  the  truth  about  him.  To  acquiesce 
in  a  lie  was  wrong,  perhaps;  but  to  toil  the  truth  would  have 
been  more  than  human. 

"I  wish,"  she  cried  in  her  agony  to  Edie,  "I  could  go  away 
at  once  and  hide  mysuif  for  ever  in  America  or  Australia,  or 
somewhere  like  that — where  he  would  never  know  I  was  really 
living." 

Edie  stroked  her  smooth  black  hair  with  a  gentle  hand ;  she 
had  views  of  her  own  already,  had  Edie.  *'  It's  a  far  cry  to 
Loch  Awe,  darling,"  she  murmured  softly.  '*  JLJetter  come  with 
mother  and  me  to  San  Kemo.'* 

"  San  Eemo  ?  "  Elsie  echoed.    "  Why,  San  Eemo  ?  '* 

And  then  Edie  explained  to  her  in  brief  outline  that  she  and 
her  mother  went  every  winter  to  the  Eiviera,  taking  with  them 
a  few  delicate  English  girls  of  consumptive  tendency,  partly  to 
educate,  but  more  still  to  escape  the  bitter  English  Christmas. 
They  hired  a  villa — the  same  every  year — on  a  slope  of  the  hills, 
and  engaged  a  resident  governess  to  accompany  them.  But,  as 
chance  woijld  have  it,  their  last  governess  had  just  gone  off,  in 
the  nick  of  time,  to  get  married  to  her  faithful  bank  clerk  at 
Brixton ;  so  here  was  an  opportunity  for  mutual  accommodation. 
As  Edie  put  the  thing,  Elsie  might  almost  have  supposed,  wcro 
she  so  minded,  she  would  b^  doing  Mrs.  Keif  an  exceptional 
favour  by  accepting  the  post*  and  accon)panying  them  to  Italy. 
And,  to  say  tho  truth,  a  Girtou  graduate  who  had  taken  high 


ii 


COMPLICATIONS. 


125 


honours  at  CnmbridKO  was  certainly  adoprco  or  two  better  tlian 
anything  tho  delioare  girls  of  consninptivo  tendency  could 
reasonably  have  expected  to  obtain  at  San  Kenio.  But  none  the 
Ijss  the  offer  was  a  generous  one,  kindly  meant;  and  EKsie 
accepted  it  just  as  it  was  intended.  It  was  a  fair  excliango  of 
mutual  services.  She  must  earn  her  own  livelihood  wherever 
she  went ;  trouble,  however  deep,  lias  always  that  spociiil 
aggravation  and  that  special  consolalion  for  penniless  people; 
and  in  no  other  house  could  she  possibly  have  earned  it  without 
a  reference  or  testimonial  I'rom  her  last  employers.  Tho  Ilelfs 
needed  no  such  awkward  introduction.  This  arrangement 
suited  both  parties  admirably  ;  and  poor  heart-broken  Elsie,  in 
lier  present  shattered  condition  of  nerves,  was  glad  enough  to 
accept  her  new  friends'  kind  hosj)itality  at  Lowestoft  for  tho 
pitsent,  till  she  could  fly  with  them  at  last,  early  in  October, 
from  this  dcpccratcd  England  and  from  the  cLauco  of  running 
uj)  against  Hugh  Massinger. 

Her  whole  existence  summed  itself  up  now  in  the  one  wish 
to  escape  Hugh.  He  thought  her  dead.  She  hoped  in  her  heart 
he  might  never  again  discover  she  was  living. 

On  the  very  first  day  when  she  dared  to  venture  out  in  a  Bath- 
chair,  muffled  and  veiled,  and  in  a  new  black  dress— lest  any 
one  perchance  should  happen  to  recognize  her — she  asked  to  be 
wheeled  to  the  Lowestot  i;  pier ;  and  Edie,  who  accompanied  her 
out  on  that  sad  llrst  ride,  walked  slowly  by  her  siue  in  sym- 
puthctic  silence.  Warren  Relf  followed  her  too,  but  at  a  safe 
distance ;  he  could  not  think  of  obtruding  as  yet  a  male  presence 
upon  her  shame  and  grief;  but  still  he  could  not  wholly  deny 
himself  either  the  modest  pleasure  of  watching  her  from  afiir, 
unseen  and  unsuspucted.  Warren  had  hardly  so  much  as 
caught  a  glimpse  of  Elsie  since  that  night  on  the  Mud-Turile  : 
but  Elsie's  gentleness  and  the  profundity  of  her  sorrow  had 
touched  him  deeply.  Ho  began  indeed  to  suspect  he  was  really 
in  love  with  her ;  and  perhaps  his  suspicion  was  not  entirely 
baseless.  Ho  knew  too  well,  however,  the  depth  of  her  distress 
to  dream  of  pressing  even  his  sympathy  upon  her  at  so  inoppor- 
tune a  moment.  If  ever  the  right  time  for  him  came  at  all,  it 
could  come,  he  knew,  only  in  the  remote  future. 

At  the  end  of  the  pier,  Eisio  hailed  the  chair,  and  made  the 
chairman  wheel  it  as  she  directed,  exactly  ojjposite  one  of  the 
open  gaps  in  the  barrier  of  woodwork  that  van  round  it.  Then 
she  raised  herself  up  with  difficulty  from  her  seat.  She  was 
holding  something  tight  in  her  small  right  hand;  she  had 
drawn  it  that  moment  from  the  folds  of  her  bosom.  It  was  a 
packet  of  papers,  tied  carefully  iu  a  knot  with  some  heavy 
ol»jeot.  W'arren  Eelf,  observing  cautiously  from  behind,  felt- 
sure  in  his  own  mind  it  was  a  heavy  object  by  the  curve  it 
U 


i 


m 


1     ^'M 


1' 


^  ' 


i 


1 


III     -^ 


r 


120 


Tins  MORTAL   COIL. 


(l(!fcril)e(l  as  it  wlicelod  tbronph  the  air  wlion  E'sie  throw  it. 
For  Elsio  hod  risen  now,  palo  and  red  by  turns,  and  was 
flinging  it  out  with  feverish  energy  in  a  sweeping  arch  far,  far 
into  the  water.  It  struck  the  surfaco  with  a  dull  thud— tho 
heavy  thud  of  a  stone  or  a  metallic  body.  In  a  second  it  had 
sunk  like  lend  to  the  bottom,  and  Elsio,  bursting  into  a  silent 
flood  of  tears,  had  ordered  tho  chairman  to  take  her  home 
again. 

W.irren  Rolf,  skulking  hastily  down  tho  steps  behind  that 
lead  to  tlie  tidal  platform  under  tho  pier,  had  no  doubt  at  all  in 
his  own  mind  what  the  object  was  that  Elsie  had  flung  with 
such  fi(  ry  force  into  tho  deep  water;  for  that  night  on  tho  Mud- 
7''irtle,  as  ho  tried  to  restore  tho  insensible  girl  to  a  passing 
gkani  of  lite  and  consciousness,  two  distinct  articles  had  fallen, 
one  by  one,  in  the  hurry  of  the  moment,  out  of  her  loose  and 
drii»i)ing  bosom.  Ho  was  not  curious,  but  he  couldn't  help 
obseiving  thcni.  Tho  first  was  a  bundle  of  water-logged  letters 
in  a  hand  which  it  was  impossible  for  him  not  to  recognize. 
Tho  second  was  a  pretty  little  lady's  watch,  in  gold  and  enamel, 
with  a  neat  inscri])tion  engraved  on  a  shield  on  tho  back, "  E.  C. 
from  H.  !RI.,"  in  Lombardic  letters.  It  wasn't  Warren  Eelf's 
fault  if  he  knew  then  who  II.  M.  was;  and  it  wasn't  his  fault  if 
he  knew  now  that  Elsie  Challoner  had  formally  renounced  Hugh 
Massinger's  love,  by  flinging  his  letters  and  presents  bodily  into 
the  deep  sea,  where  no  one  could  ever  possibly  recover  them. 

They  had  burnt  into  her  flesh,  lying  there  in  her  bosom.  She 
could  carry  them  about  next  her  bruised  and  wounded  heart  no 
longer.  And  now,  on  this  very  first  day  that  she  had  ventured 
out,  she  buried  her  love  and  all  that  belonged  to  it  in  that  deep 
where  Hugh  Massinger  himself  had  sent  her. 

But  even  so,  it  cost  her  hard.  They  wore  Hugh's  letters — 
those  precious  much-loved  letters.  She  went  home  that  morn- 
ing crying  bitterly,  and  she  cried  till  night,  like  one  who 
mourns  her  lost  husband  or  her  lost  children.  They  were  all 
she  had  left  of  Hugh  and  of  her  day-dream.  Edie  knew  exactly 
what  she  had  done,  but  avoided  the  vain  effort  to  comfort  or 
console  her.  " Comfort-  ;oni fort  scorned  of  devils!"  Edie 
was  woman  enough  to  kiiow  she  could  do  nothing.  She  only 
held  her  new  friend's  hand  tight  clasped  iu  hers,  and  cried 
beside  her  in  mute  fcisterly  sympathy. 

It  was  about  a  week  later  tliat  Hugh  Maspinger,  goaded  by 
remorse,  and  nnable  any  longer  to  endure  the  suspense  of 
hearing  nothing  further,  directly  or  indirectly,  as  to  Elsie's  fate, 
set  out  one  morning  in  a  dogcart  from  Whitestrand,  and  drove 
along  the  coast  with  his  own  thoughts,  in  a  blazing  cunlight,  as 
far  as  Aldeburgh.  There,  tho  road  abrujitly  stops.  No  high- 
way spans  the  ridge  of  beach  beyond;  the  remainder  of  the 


i 


lie 
ily 
ed 


COMPLICATIONS. 


127 


he 


distance  to  tho  liow  LiRlit  at  OrforrlncRs  must  bo  accomplished 
ou  foot,  along  a  flat  bank  that  Rtretclics  for  miles  l)utween  sea 
and  river,  untroddc n  and  tia(;kies.s,  one  l»aro  blank  waste  of 
Ban.''  and  shingle.  The  ruthless  sun  was  pouring  down  upon  it 
^  fuil  force  an  Hugh  Massinger  began  l)is  solitary  tramp  along 
tnat  uneven  road  at  the  Marlello  Tower,  just  south  of 
Aldeburgh.  The  more  usual  course  is  to  sail  by  sea;  and 
Hugh  might  indeed  have  hired  a  boat  at  Slaughden  Quay  if  ho 
dared;  but  ho  feared  to  be  recognized  as  having  come  from 
Whitjstrand  to  make  inquiries  about  tho  unclaimed  body;  for 
to  rouso  Buspieion  would  bo  doubly  unwise:  he  felt  liko  a 
murderer,  and  ho  considered  himself  one  by  implication  already. 
If  other  i)eoplo  grew  to  suspect  that  Elsie  was  drowned,  it 
would  go  hard  but  they  would  think  as  ill  of  him  as  he 
himself  thought  of  himself  in  his  bitterest  moments. 

For,  horrible  to  relate,  all  this  time,  with  that  burden  of 
agony  and  anguish  and  suspense  weighing  down  his  soul  like  a 
mass  of  lead,  he  had  had  to  play  as  best  he  might,  every  night 
and  morning,  at  the  ardour  of  young  love  with  that  girl 
Winifred.  Ho  had  had  to  imitate  with  hateful  skill  the 
wantonness  of  youth  and  the  ecsiasy  of  the  happily  betrothed 
lover.  He  had  had  to  wear  l  mask  of  pleasure  on  his  pinched 
face  while  his  heart  within  was  full  of  bitterness,  as  he  cried 
to  himself  more  t'lan  once  in  his  reckless  agony.  After  such 
unnatural  restraint,  reaction  was  inevitable.  It  became  a 
delight  to  him  to  get  away  for  once  from  that  grim  comedy,  in 
which  he  acted  his  part  with  so  much  apparent  ease,  and  to 
face  the  genuine  trngedy  of  his  miserable  life,  alone  and 
undisturbed  with  his  own  remorseful  thoughts  for  a  few  short 
hours  or  so.  Ho  looked  upon  that  fierce  tramp  in  the  eye  of  the 
sun,  trudging  over  on  over  those  baking  stones,  and  through 
that  barren  spit  of  sand  and  shingle,  to  some  extent  in  the  light 
of  a  self-imposed  penance — a  penance,  and  yet  a  splendid 
indulgence  as  well ;  for  liere  there  was  no  one  to  watch  or 
observe  him.  Here  he  could  let  the  tears  trickle  down  his  face 
unreproved,  and  no  longer  pretend  to  believe  himself  happy. 
Here  there  was  no  Winifred  to  tease  him  with  her  love.  He 
had  sold  his  own  soul  for  a  few  wretched  acres  of  stagnant  salt 
marsh:  he  could  gloat  now  at  his  ease  over  his  hateful  bargain ; 
he  could  call  hims^elf  "Fool"  at  tho  top  of  his  voice;  he  could 
groan  and  siph  and  be  as  sad  as  night,  no  man  hindering  him. 
It  was  an  orgy  of  remorse,  and  ho  gave  way  to  it  with  wild 
orgiastic  fervour. 

He  plodded,  plodded,  plodded  ever  on,  stumbling  wearily 
over  that  endless  shingle,  thirsty  and  footsore,  mile  after  mile, 
yet  glad  to  be  relieved  for  awhile  from  the  strain  of  his  long 
hypocrisy,  and  to  let  the  tears  flow  easily  and  naturally  one 


4 


I  1 

\  ■ 


1 


128 


THIS  MORTAL   COIL, 


\  I 


if: 


i   1 


I 


iiii  il; 


after  the  other  down  his  parched  cheek.  Trnly  he  walked  in 
tho  gall  of  bitterness  and  in  the  bond  of  iniquity.  The  iron 
was  entering  into  his  own  soul;  and  yet  he  hugged  it.  The 
gloom  of  that  barren  stretch  of  water- worn  pebbles,  the  weird 
and  widespread  desolation  of  the  landscape,  the  fierce  glare  of 
the  mid-day  sun  that  poured  down  mercilessly  on  his  aching 
head,  all  chimed  in  congenially  with  his  present  brooding  and 
melancholy  humour,  and  gave  strength  to  the  poignancy  of  his 
remorse  and  regret.  He  could  torture  himself  to  the  bone  in 
these  small  matters,  for  dead  Elsie's  sake;  he  could  do  penance, 
but  not  make  restitution.  He  couldn't  even  so  tell  out  the 
truth  before  the  whole  world,  or  right  the  two  women  he  had 
cruelly  wronged,  by  an  open  confession. 

At  last,  after  mile  upon  mile  of  weary  staggering,  he  reached 
the  Low  Light,  and  sat  down,  exhausted,  on  the  bare  shingle 
just  outside  the  lighthouse-keeper's  quarters.  Strangers  are 
rare  at  Orfordness;  and  a  morose-looking  man,  soured  by 
solitude,  soon  presented  himself  at  the  door  to  stare  at  tho  new- 
comer. 

"Tramped  it?"  he  asked  curtly,  "with  an  inquiring  glance 
along  the  shingle  beach. 

"  Yes,  tramped  it,"  Hugh  answered,  with  a  weary  sigh,  and 
relapsed  into  silence,  too  utterly  tired  to  think  of  how  he  hail 
best  set  about  the  prosecution  of  his  delicate  inquiry,  now  that 
he  had  got  there. 

The  man  stood  with  his  hand  on  his  hip,  and  watched  the 
stranger  long  and  close,  with  frank  mute  curiosity,  as  one 
watches  a  wild  beast  in  its  cage  at  a  menagerie.  At  last  he 
broke  the  solemn  silence  ouce  more  with  the  one  inquisitive 
word,  "Why?" 

"Amusement,"  Hugh  answeroil,  catching  the  man's  laconic 
humour  to  the  very  echo. 

For  twenty  minutes  they  talked  on,  in  this  brief  disjointed 
Spartan  fashion,  with  que.ition  and  answer  as  to  the  life  at 
Orfordness  tossed  to  and  fro  like  a  quick  ball  between  them,  till 
at  last  Hugh  touched,  as  if  by  accident,  but  with  supreme  skill, 
upon  the  abstract  question  of  provisioning  lighthouses. 

"  Trinity  House  stcani-cutter,"  the  man  repli(?d  to  his  short 
suggested  query,  with  a  sidelong  jerk  of  his  head  to  southward 
"  Tv'ice  a  mouth.    Pritty  fair  grub.    Biscuit  aud  pork  an'  tiuueu 
meat  an'  soo  on." 

"Queer  employraeni;,  the  cutter's  men,"  Hugh  interposed 
quietly.    "Must  see  a  deal  of  life  iu  their  way  sometimes," 

The  man  nodded.  •*  Yis,  an'  deatli  too,"  he  assented  with 
uncompromising  brevity. 

"Wrecks?" 

"  And  corpsus." 


COMPLICATIONS. 


129 


"Corpses?" 

"Ah,  corpsus,  I  believe  you.  Drowncled  ones.  Plenty  on 
'em." 

"Here?" 

"Sometimes.  But  moostly  on  the  north  side.  Drift  wooth 
the  tide.  Cutter's  man  found  one  bonly  a  week  agoo  last 
Sarraday.    Cover  hinder  aginst  that  groyne  to  windwud." 

"Sailor?" 

**  Not  this  time — gal —  young  womnn." 

"Where  did  she  come  from?"  Hugh  asked  eagerly,  yet 
suppressing  his  eagerntss  in  his  face  and  voice  as  well  as  he 
was  able. 

"  Doon't  know,  u'm  sure,"  the  roan  answered  with  something 
very  like  a  shrug.  "  They  doon't  carry  their  naames  and  poorts 
wroot  on  their  foreheads  as  though  they  wor  vessels.  Lowstof, 
Whitestrand,  Southwold,  Aldeburgh — might  ha'  bin  any  on  'em. 

Hugh  continued  his  inquiries  with  breathless  interest  a  fe^v 
minutes  longer,  then  he  asked  again  in  a  trembling  voice: 
"  Any  jewelry  on  her  ?  " 

The  man  eyed  him  suspiciously  askance.  Detective  in 
disguise,  or  what  ?  he  wondered.  "  Ast  the  cutter's  man,"  he 
drawled  out  slowly,  after  a  long  pause.  "  If  there  was  anything 
val'able  on  the  corpse,  t'een't  likely  he'd,  leave  it  about  bar  for 
the  coroner  to  nail — not  he ! " 

The  answer  cast  an  unexpected  flood  of  light  on  the  seafaring 
view  of  the  treasure-trovo  of  corpses,  fv)r  which  Hugh  had 
hardly  before  been  prepared  in  his  own  mind.  That  would 
account  for  her  not  having  been  recognized.  "  Did  they  hold  an 
inquest  ?  "  he  ventured  to  ask  nervously. 

The  lighthouse-man  nodded.  " But  whot's  the  use  o'  that? — 
noo  evidence,"  he  continued.  "  Moost  o'  these  drownded  bodies 
aren't  'dentificd.  Jury  browt  it  in  '  Found  drownded.'  Con- 
venient vardick — save  a  lot  o'  trouble." 

"Where  do  you  bury  them?"  Hugh  asked,  hardly  able  to 
control  his  emotion. 

The  man  waved  his  hand  with  a  careless  dash  towards  a 
sandy  patch  jit:!  beyond  the  High  Light.  "  Cover  hinder,"  he 
answered.  "There's  shiploads  on  'em  there.  Easy  diggin'. 
Easier  than  the  shingle.  We  buried  the  crew  of  a  Hamburg 
brigantine  there  all  in  a  lump  last  winter.  They  went  ashore 
on  the  Ca/e  Sands.  All  hands  drownded,  about  a  baker's  dozen 
on  'em.  Coroner  came  oover  from  Orford  an'  set  on. 'em,  here 
on  the  spot,  as  yow  may  pay.  That's  cjonsecrated  ground. 
Bishop  came  from  Norwich  and  said  his  prayers  oover  it.  A 
corpse  coon't  lay  better,  nor  more  comforable,  if  it  come  to  that, 
in  Woodbridge  Cemmetry." 

He  laughed  low  to  himself  at  liis  own  grim  wit;  and  Hugh, 


i:i 


:ir 


m 


f 


t 


'M 


m 


130 


THIS  MORTAL   COIL, 


U' 


W    il 


I 


unable  to  conceal  liis  dis{2;ust,  walked  off  alone,  as  if  idly 
strolling  in  a  solitary  mood,  iowards  that  desolate  graveyard. 
The  lighthouse-man  went  back,  rolling  a  quid  in  his  bulged 
cheek,  to  his  monotonous  avocations.  Hugh  stumbled  over  the 
sand  with  blinded  eyt  s  and  tottering  feet  till  he  reached  the  plot 
with  its  little  group  of  rude  mounds.  There  Avas  one  mound  far 
newer  and  fresher  than  all  the  rest,  and  a  wooden  label  stood  at 
its  head  with  a  number  roughly  scrawled  on  it  in  wet  paint — 
"  '240."  His  heart  failed  and  sank  within  him.  So  this  was  her 
grave !— Elsie's  grave !  Elsie,  Elsie,  poor,  desolate,  abandoned, 
heart-broken  Elsie. — He  took  off  his  hat  in  reverent  remorse  as 
he  stood  by  its  side.  Oh,  heavens,  how  he  longed  to  be  dead 
there  with  her!  Should  he  fling  himself  off  the  top  of  the  light- 
house now?  Should  he  cut  his  throat  beside  her  nameless 
grave  ?  Should  he  drown  himself  with  Elsie  on  that  hopeless 
stretch  of  wild  coast?  Or  should  he  live  on  still,  a  miserable, 
wretched,  self-condemned  coward,  to  pay  the  penalty  of  his 
cruelty  and  his  baseness  through  years  of  agony. 

Elsie's  grave !  If  only  he  could  be  sure  it  was  really  Elsie's  ! 
He  wished  he  could.  In  time,  then,  he  might  venture  to  put  up 
a  headstone  with  just  her  initials — those  sacred  initials.  But 
no;  he  dared  not.  And  perhaps,  after  all,  it  might  not  be  Elsie. 
Corpses  came  up  here  often  and  often.  Had  they  not  buried 
wiiolo  shiploads  together,  as  the  lighthouse-man  assured  him, 
after  a  terrible  tempest? 

He  stood  there  long,  bareheaded  in  the  sun.  His  remorse 
was  gnawing  the  very  life  out  of  him.  Ho  was  rooted  to  the 
spot.  Elsie  held  him  spellbound.  At  length  he  roused  him- 
self, and  with  a  terrible  effort  returned  to  the  lighthouse. 
*•  Where  did  you  say  this  last  body  came  up?"  he  atked  the 
man  in  as  careless  a  voice  as  he  could  easily  master. 

The  man  eyed  him  sharp  and  hard.  "  Yow  fare  anxious 
about  that  there  young  woman,"  he  answered  coldly.  "  She 
flooted  longside  by  the  groyne  cover  hinder.  Tide  flung  har 
np.  That's  where  they  moostly  do  come  ashore  from  Lowstof 
or  Whitestrand.  Current  sweep  *em  right  along  the  coost  till 
they  reach  the  ness  :  then  it  fling  'em  up  by  the  groyne  as 
reg'iar  as  clockwork.  There's  a  cross-current  there;  that's 
what  make  the  point  and  the  sandbank." 

Hugh  faltered.  He  knew  full  well  he  was  j'ousing  suspicion ; 
yet  he  couldn't  refrain  for  all  that  from  gratifying  his  eager 
and  burning  desire  to  know  all  he  could  about  poor  martyred 
Ei.sie.  He  dared  not  ask  what  had  become  of  the  clothes,  much 
as  he  longed  to  learn,  but  he  wandered  away  slowly,  step  after 
step,  to  the  side  of  the  groyne.  Its  further  face  was  sheltered 
by  heaped-up  shingle  from  the  lighthouse-man's  eye.  Hugh 
sat  down  in  the  shade,  close  under  the  timber  balks,  and  looked 


\ 


lar 

tof 

ill 

as 


COMPLICATIONS. 


131 


around  him  alonpj  the  beach  where  Elsie  had  been  washed 
ashore,  a  lifeless  burden.  Something  yellow  glittered  on  the 
pands  hard  by.  As  the  sun  caught  it,  it  attracted  for  a  second 
his  casual  attention  by  its  golden  shimmering.  His  heart  came 
up  with  a  bound  into  his  mouth.  He  knew  it — he  knew  it— he 
knew  it  in  a  flash.  It  was  Elsie's-  watch  1  Elsie's!  Elsie's! 
The  watch  he  himself  had  given — years  and  years  ago — no; 
six  weeks  since  only — as  a  birthday  present — to  poor  dear  dead 
Elsie. 

Then  Elsie  was  dead !  He  was  sure  of  it  now.  No  need  for 
further  dangerous  questioning.  It  was  by  Elsie's  grave  indeed 
he  had  just  been  standing.  Elsie  lay  buried  there  beyond  the 
shadow  of  a  doubt,  unknown  and  dishonoured.  It  was  Elsie's 
grave  and  Elsie's  watch.  What  room  for  hope  or  for  fear  any 
longer  ? 

It  was  Elsie's  watch,  but  rolled  by  the  current  from  Lowes- 
toft pier,  as  the  lighthouse-man  had  rightly  told  him  was 
usual,  and  cast  ashore,  as  everything  else  was  always  cast,  by 
the  side  of  the  groyne  where  the  stream  in  the  sea  turned 
sharply  outward  at  tiio  extreme  easternmost  point  of  Suffolk. 

He  picked  it  up  with  tremulous  fingers  and  kissed  it  ten- 
derly ;  then  he  slipped  it  unobserved  into  his  breast-pocket, 
close  to  his  heart — Elsie's  watch ! — and  began  his  return  journey 
with  an  aching  bosom,  over  those  hot  bare  stones,  away  back  to 
Aldeburgh.  The  beach  seemed  longer  and  drearier  than  before. 
The  orgy  of  remorse  had  passed  away  now,  and  the  coolness  of 
utter  despair  had  come  over  him  instead  of  it.  Half-way  on, 
he  sat  down  at  last,  wearier  than  ever,  on  the  long  pebble  ridge, 
and  gazt  d  once  more  with  swimming  ejes  at  that  visible  token 
of  Elsie's  doom.  Hope  wan  dead  in  liis  heart  now.  Horror  and 
agony  brooded  over  his  soul.  The  world  witiiout  was  dull  and 
dreary ;  the  world  within  was  a  tempest  of  passion.  He  would 
freely  have  given  all  he  possessed  that  moment  to  be  dead  and 
buried  in  one  grave  with  Elsie. 

At  that  same  instant  at  the  Low  Light  tbp  cutter's  man, 
come  across  in  an  open  boat  from  Orford,  was  talking  carelessly 
to  the  underling  at  the  lighthouse. 

"  Well,  Tom,  bor,  how're  things  lookiu'  wi'  yow  ?  "  he  asked 
with  a  laugh. 

"  Middlin'  like,  an*  that  stodgy,"  the  other  answered  grimly. 
"  How  do  yow  git  on  ?  " 

"  Well,  we  ha'  tracked  down  that  there  body,"  the  Trinity 
House  man  said  casual  y;  "the  gal's,  I  mean,  what  I  picked 
up  on  the  news ;  an*  arter  all  my  trouble,  Tom,  yow'll  hardly 
believe  it,  but  blow  me  if  I  made  a  penny  on  it." 

"  Yow  din't  ?  "  the  lighthouse-man  murmured  interrogatively. 

"  Not  a  farden,"  the  fellow  Bill  responded  in  a  dibcuusolatt) 


'^  1 

,  -111 

m 


n 


132 


THIS  MORTAL  COIL, 


i;  J 


I  « 


voice.    *'  The  body  worn't  a  nob's ;  so  far,  in  that  rcspeck,  she 
worn't  nobody  arter  all,  but  oonly  one  o'  them  there  light-o'- 
loves  down  hinder  at  Lowstof.    She  was  a  sailor's  moll,  I 
reckon.    Flung  harself  off  Lowstof  pier  one  dark  night,  maybe 
a  fortnight  agoo,  or  maybe  three  weeks.     She'd  bin  hevin' 
Bome  wuds  wootli  a  young  man  she'd  bin  a-keepin'  company 
wooth.    I  never  see  a  more  promisin'  or  more  disappointin' 
corpse  in  my  breathiu'  life.    When  I  picked  bar  up,  I  say  to 
Jim,  I  say,  *  Yow  may  take  yar  davy  ou't,  bor,  that  this  gal  is 
a  nob.    I  goo  by  bar  looks,  an'  1  't-pect  there's  money  on  bar.* 
Why,  bar  dress  aloon  would  ha'  made  any  one  take  liar  for  a 
real  lady.    And  arter  all,  what  do  it  amount  to?    Nothen  at 
all!    Jest  the  parish  paay  for  bar.    Thai's  Suffolk  all  oover, 
and  rile  mo  when  I  think  on't.    If  it  han't  a  bin  for  a  val'able 
in  the  way  o'  rings  what  fell  off  bar  linger,  in  a  manner  of 
speakiu',  and  dropped  as  yow  may  say  into  an  honest  man's 
pocket  when  be  was  a-takin*  bar  to  the  dead-house — why,  it 
fare  to  me,  that  there  honest  man  would  a  bin  out  o'  pocket  a 
marter  of  a  shillen  or  soo,  and  all  thraow  tho  interest  he  took 
in  a  wuthless  an'  good-lbr-nothen  young  woman.     Corpsus 
may  look  out  for  theirselves  in  future,  as  far  as  I'm  consarntd, 
and  that's  to  a  sartinty.    I  ha'  had  too  much  on  'em.    They're 
more  bother  than  they're  wuth.    That's  jest  the  lung  an'  short 
on't — blow  me  if  it  een't.'* 


CHAPTER  XIX. 


s 


\i 


•  I 


AU  RENDEZVOUS  DES  BONS  CAMARADES. 

In  the  cosy  smoking-room  of  tho  Cheyne  Row  Club,  a  group  of 
budding  geniuses,  convened  from  the  four  quarters  of  the  earth, 
stood  once  more  in  the  bay-window,  looking  out  on  the  dull 
October  street,  and  discussing  with  one  another  in  diverse 
tones  the  various  means  which  each  had  adopted  for  killing 
time  through  his  own  modicum  of  summer  holidays.  Eeminis- 
cences  and  greetings  were  the  order  of  the  day.  A  buzz  of 
voices  pervaded  the  air.  Everybody  was  full  to  the  throat  of 
fresh  impressions,  and  everybody  was  laudably  eager  to  sharo 
them  all,  still  hot  from  the  press,  with  the  balance  of  humanity 
as  then  and  tiiere  represented  before  him. — The  mosquitoes  at 
the  North  Cape  were  really  unendurable:  they  bit  a  piece  out 
of  your  face  bodily,  and  then  perched  on  a  neighbouring  tree  to 
cat  it;  while  <'ic>  midnight  sun,  as  advertised,  was  a  hoary  old 
impostor,  exa  ily  like  any  other  sun  anywhere,  when  you  camo 
to  (jxamine  Ikui  through  a  smoked  glass  at  close  quarters. 


e: 


^ 


AU  RENDEZVOUS  DES  SONS  CAMABADES.    133 

Cromer  was  jnst  the  jolliest  place  to  lounpe  on  the  sands,  and 
the  best  centre  foi-  short  excursions,  that  a  fellow  could  find  on 
a  year's  tramp  all  round  the  shores  of  England,  Scf^tland, 
Wales,  or  Ireland. 

Grouse  were  scanty  and  devilish  cnnnin*?  in  Aberdeenshire 
this  year;  the  young  bird?  packed  like  old  ones;  and  the  accom- 
modation at  Lumplianai]  had  turned  out  on  nearer  view  by  no 
means  what  it  ought  to  be. 

A  most  delightful  time  indeed  at  Beatenberg,  just  above  the 
Lake  of  Thun,  you  know,  with  exquisite  views  over  the  Bernese 
Oberland;  and  stcch  a  pretty  little  Swiss  maiden,  with  liquid 
blue  eyes  and  tow-coloufcd  hair,  to  bring  in  one's  breakfast  and 
ponr  out  coft'ee  in  the  thick  white  coftee-cups.  And  then  the 
flowers! — a  perfect  paradise  for  a  botanist,  I  assure  yon. 

Montreal  in  August  was  hot  and  stuffy,  but  the  Thousand 
Islands  were  simply  delicious,  and  black-bass  fishing  among 
the  back  lakes  was  the  only  sport  now  loft  alive  worthy  a 
British  fisherman's  distinguished  consideration. 

Oh  yes;  the  yacht  bohaved  very  well  indeed,  considering,  on 
lier  way  to  Iceland — as  well  as  any  yacht  that  sailed  the  seas — 
but  just  before  reaching  Iloykjavik — that's  how  they  pronounce 
it,  with,  they  soft  and  a  falling  intonation  on  the  last  syllable  — 
a  most  tremendous  gale  came  thundering  down  with  rain  and 
lightning  from  the  Vatna  Jokull,  and,  by  George,  sir,  it  nearly 
foundered  her  outright  with  its  sudden  squalls  in  the  open 
ocean.  You  never  saw  anything  like  the  way  she  heeled  over  : 
>ou  could  touch  the  trough  of  the  waves  every  time  from  the 
gunwale. 

Had  anything  new  been  going  on,  you  fellows,  while  we  were 
all  away?  and  had  anybody  heard  anything  about  the  Bard,  as 
Choyne  Row  had  unanimously  nicknamed  Hugh  Massiuger? 

Yes,  one  budding  genius  in  the  descriptive-article  trade — 
writer  of  that  interesting  series  of  papers  in  the  Charing  Cross 
Jxeoiew  on  Seaside  Eesorts — afterwards  reprinted  in  crown 
octavo  fancy  boards,  at  seven-and-sixpence,  as  "  The  Complete 
Idler  " — had  had  a  letter  from  the  Bard  himself  only  three  days 
ago,  announcing  his  intention  to  be  back  iu  harness  in  town 
aj.ain  that  very  morning. 

"And  what's  the  Immortal  Singer  been  doing  with  himself 
this  hot  summer  ?  "  cried  a  dozen  vo'.tes— for  it  was  generally 
felt  in  Cheyne  Eow  circles  that  Hugh  Massinger,  though  still 
as  undiscovered  as  the  sources  of  the  Congo,  was  a  coming  man 
of  proximate  eventuality.  "  Has  he  hooked  his  heiress  yet  ?  He 
swore,  when  he  left  town  in  July,  he  was  going  on  an  angling 
expedition — as  a  fisher  of  women — in  the  eastern  counties." 

"  Well,  yes,"  the  recipient  of  young  love's  first  confidences 
responded  guardedly ;  "  I  should  say  he  had. — To  be  sure,  the 


m; 


VnA 


if'-ii 


IM 


THIS  MORTAL  COIL. 


il 


■'  3 


i 


Immortal  One  doosn't  exactly  mention  the  fact  or  amount  of 
the  young  lady's  fortune;  but  he  does  casiinlly  remark  in  a 
single  passing  sentence  that  he  has  got  hinjself  engaged  to  a 
Thing  of  Beauty  somewhere  down  in  Suffolk." 

"Suffolk! — most  congruous  indeed  for  an  idyllic,  bucolic, 
impressionist  poet. — He'll  come  back  to  town  with  a  wreath 
round  his  hat,  and  his  pockets  stuffed  with  stanzas  and  sonnets 
to  his  mistress's  eyebrow,  where  '  Suffolk  punches '  shall  sweetly 
rhyme  to  *  the  red-cheek  apple  that  she  gaily  munches,'  with 
slight  excursions  on  lunches,  bunches,  crunches,  and  hunches, 
all  a  la  Massinper,  in  endless  profusion. — Now  then,  Hatherley; 
there's  a  guinea's  worth  ready  made  for  you  to  your  hand 
already.  Send  it  by  the  first  post  yourself  to  the  lady,  and  cut 
out  the  Bard  on  his  own  ground  with  the  beautiful  and  anony- 
mous East  Anglian  heiress. — 1  suppose,  by  the  way,  Massinger 
didn't  happen  to  confide  to  you  the  local  habitation  and  the 
name  of  the  proud  recipient  of  so  much  interested  and  ana- 
paestic devotion  ?  " 

"lie  said,  I  think,  if  I  remember  right,  her  name  was 
Meyficy." 

"  Meyscy  I  Oh,  then,  that's  one  of  the  Whitestrand  Meyseys, 
you  may  be  sure ;  daughter  of  old  Tom  Wyville  iNTeysey,  whose 
estates  have  all  been  swallowed  up  by  the  sea.  They  lie  in  the 
prebend  of  Consumptum  per  Mart  — If  he's  going  to  marry  her 
on  the  strength  of  her  red,  red  goid,  or  of  her  vestod  securities 
in  Argentine  and  Turkish,  he'll  have  to  collect  his  arrears  ot 
income  from  a  sea-green  mermaid — at  the  bottom  of  the  deep 
blue  sea;  which  will  be  worse  than  even  dealing  with  that 
horrid  Land  League,  for  the  Queen's  writ  doesn't  run  beyond 
the  foresliore,  and  No  Kent  is  universal  law  on  the  bed  of  the 
ocean." 

"  I  don't  think  they've  all  been  quite  swallowed  up,"  one  of 
the  bystanders  remailctd  in  a  pensive  voice :  he  was  Suffolk 
born;  "at  least,  not  yet,  as  fai-  as  I've  heard  of  them.  Tlie 
devouring  sea  is  engaged  in  taking  tliem  a  bite  at  a  time,  like 
l^ob  Sawyer's  apple;  but  he's  lelt  the  Hall  aud  the  lands  about 
it  to  the  present  day — ko  Kclf  tells  me." 

"  Has  she  money,  I  wonder?"  the  editor  of  that  struggling 
periodical,  the  Might-Jar,  remarked  abstractedly. 

"  Oh,  I  expect  so,  or  the  Bard  wouldn't  ever  have  dreamt  of 
proposing  to  her.  The  Immortal  Singer  knows  his  own  worth 
exactly,  to  four  places  of  decimals,  and  estimates  himself  at  full 
market  value.  He's  the  last  man  on  earth  to  throw  himself 
away  for  a  mere  trifle.  When  ho  sells  his  soul  in  the  matri- 
monial Exchange,  it'll  be  for  the  highest  current  market  quota- 
tion, to  an  eligilde  purchaser  for  cash  only,  who  must  combine 
considerable  charnis  of  body  and  mind  with  the  superadded 


"T'  1 


AU  RENDEZVOUS  DES  SONS  CAMARADES.    135 

advantage  of  a  respectable  balance  at  Drummond's  or  at 
Coutts's.  The  Bard  knows  down  to  the  ground  the  exact 
money  worth  of  a  handsome  poet;  ho  wouldn't  dream  of  letting 
himself  go  dirt  cheap,  like  a  common  cvery-day  historian  or 
novelist.'* 

As  the  last  speaker  let  the  words  drop  carelessly  from  his 
mouth,  the  buzz  of  voices  in  the  smoke-room  paused  suddenly : 
there  was  a  slight  and  awkward  lull  in  the  conversation  for 
half  a  minute;  and  then  the  crov/d  of  budding  geniuses  was 
stretching  out  its  dozen  right  hands  with  singular  unanimity 
in  rapid  succession  to  grasp  the  fingers  of  a  tall  dark  new-comer 
who  had  slipped  in,  after  the  fashion  usually  attributed  to 
angels  or  their  opposite,  in  the  very  nick  of  time  to  catch 
the  last  echoes  of  a  candid  opinion  from  his  peers  and  contem- 
poraries upon  his  own  conduct. 

"  Do  you  think  he  heard  us?"  one  of  the  jDcccant  gossipers 
whispered  to  another  with  a  scared  face. 

"  Can't  say,"  his  friend  whispered  back  uneasily.  "He's  got 
quick  ears.  Listeners  generally  hear  no  good  of  themselves. 
]{ut  anyhow,  we've  got  to  brazen  it  out  now.  The  best  way's 
just  to  take  the  bull  by  the  horns  boldly. — Well,  Massinger,  wo 
were  all  talking  about  you  when  you  came  in.  You're  the  chief 
subject  of  couversa'  on  in  literary  circles  at  the  present  day. 
Do  you  know  it's  going  the  round  of  all  the  clubs  in  London 
at  this  moment  that  yoa  shortly  contemplate  committing 
matrimony  ?  " 

Hugh  Massinger  drew  himself  up  stiff  and  erect  to  his  full 
height,  and  withered  his  questioner  with  a  scathing  glance  from 
his  dark  eyes  such  as  only  he  could  dart  at  will  to  scarify  and 
annihilate  a  selected  victim.  •'  I'm  going  to  be  married  in 
the  course  of  the  year,"  he  answered  coldly,  "  if  that's  what  you 
mean  by  committing  matrimony. — Mitchison,"  turning  round 
with  marked  abruptness  to  an  earlier  speaker,  "  what  have  you 
been  doing  with  yourself  all  the  summer?" 

"  Oh,  I've  been  riding  a  bicycle  through  the  best  part  of 
Finland,  getting  up  a  set  of  articles  on  the  picturesque  aspect 
of  the  Far  North  for  the  Porte-Crayon,  you  know,  and  at  the 
same  time  working  in  the  Russian  anarchists  for  the  leader 
column  in  the  Morning  Telephone, — Bates  went  with  me  on  the 
illegitimate  machine — yes,  that  means  a  tricycle ;  the  bicycle 
alone's  accounted  lawful :  he's  doing  the  sketches  to  illustrate 
my  letterpress,  or  I'm  doing  the  letterpress  to  iUustrate  his 
sketches — whichever  you  please,  my  little  dear;  you  pays  your 
money  and  you  takes  your  choice,  all  for  the  small  sum  of  six- 
pence weekly.  The  roads  in  Finland  are  abominably  rough, 
and  the  Finnish  language  is  the  beastliest  and  most  agglutina- 
tive 1  ever  had  to  deal  with,  even  in  the  entrancing  pages  of 


:ll; 


M 


IS    i'l 


1 ''  »1 


136 


THIS  MORTAL   COIL, 


111' 


t 


Ollendorff.  But  there's  good  copy  in  it — very  good  copy. — The 
Telephone  and  tlie  Forte-Crayoti  shared  our  expenses. — And 
where  have  you  been  hiding  your  light  yourselt  since  we  last 
saw  you  ?  " 

"  My  particular  bushel  was  somewhere  down  about  Suffolk,  I 
believe,"  Hugh  Massinger  answered  with  magnificent  indetinite- 
ness,  as  though  minute  accuracy  to  tlie  matter  of  a  county  or 
two  were  rather  beneath  his  sublime  consideration.  "I've 
been  stopping  at  a  dead-alive  little  place  they  cal!  Wliitostrand  : 
a  sort  of  moribund  fishing  village,  minus  the  fish.  It's  a  lost 
corner  among  the  mud-flats  and  the  salt  marshes;  pictunsque, 
but  ugly,  and  dull  as  ditch-water.  And  having  nothing  elso 
on  earth  to  do  there,  I  occupied  myself  with  getting  engaged, 
as  you  lellows  seem  to  have  heard  by  telegraph  already.  This 
is  an  age  of  publicity.  Everything's  known  in  London  nowa- 
days. A  man  can't  change  liis  coat,  it  appears,  or  have  venison 
lor  dinner,  or  wear  red  stockings,  or  stop  to  chat  with  a  pretty 
woman,  but  he  finds  a  flaring  paragraph  about  it  next  day  in 
the  society  papers." 

"May  one  venture  to  ask  the  lady's  name?"  Mitchison 
inquired  courteously,  a  little  aj  art  from  the  main  group. 

Hugh  Massinger's  manner  melted  at  once.  He  would  not  be 
chaffed,  but  it  rather  relieved  him,  in  his  present  strained  con- 
dition of  mind,  to  enter  mto  inoflensive  confidences  with  a 
polite  listener. 

"  She's  a  Miss  Moysoy,"  he  said  in  a  lower  tone,  drawing  over 
towards  the  fireplace:  "one  of  the  Sufifolk  Meyseys — you've 
heard  of  the  family.  Her  father  has  a  very  nice  place  down  by 
the  sea  at  Whitestrand.  They're  the  banking  people,  you 
know :  remote  cousins  of  the  old  hanging  judge's.  "Very  nice 
old  things  in  their  own  way,  though  a  trifle  slow  and  out  of 
date — not  to  say  mouldy. — But  after  all,  rapidity  is  hardly  the 
precise  quality  one  feels  called  upon  to  exact  in  a  prospective 
father-in-law:  slowness  goes  with  some  solid  virtues.  The 
honoured  tortoise  has  never  been  accused  by  its  deadliest  foes 
of  wasting  its  patrimony  in  extravagant  expenditure." 

"Has  she  any  brothers?"  Mitchison  asked  with  apparent 
ingenuousness,  approaching  the  question  of  Miss  Meysey  ^ 
fortune  (like  Hugh  himself)  by  obscure  byways,  as  being  n 
politer  mode  than  the  direct  assault.  "There  was  a  fellow 
called  Meysey  in  the  fifth  form  with  me  at  Winchester,  1 
remember;  perhaps  he  might  have  been  some  sort  of  relation." 

Hugh  shook  his  head  in  emphatic  dissent.  "No,"  he 
answered ;  "  the  girl  has  no  brothers.  She's  an  only  child— 
the  last  of  her  family.  There  was  one  son,  a  captain  in  the 
Forty-fourth,  or  something  of  the  sort ;  but  he  was  killed  in 
Zuluiand,  and  was  never  at  Winchester,  or  I'm  sure  I  should 


I 


AU  BEKDEZVOUa  DES  BONS   CAMAIiADES.    137 

have  heard  of  it. — They're  a  kinless  lot,  extremely  kinlcss :  in 
fact,  I've  almost  realized  the  highest  ambition  of  the  American 
linmorist,  to  the  effect  that  he  might  have  the  luck  to  marry  a 
poor  lonely  friendless  orphnn." 

"  She's  an  heiress,  then?  " 

Hugh  nodded  assent.  "Well,  a  sort  of  an  heiress,'*  ho 
admitted  modestly,  as  who  should  say,  "not  so  good  as  she 
might  be."  *'  The  estate's  been  very  much  impaired  by  the 
inroads  of  the  sea  for  the  last  ten  years ;  but  there's  still  a 
decent  remnant  of  it  left  standing.  Enough  for  a  man  of 
modest  exi^ectations  to  make  a  living  off  in  these  hard  times, 
I  fancy." 

"  Then  we  shall  all  come  down  in  duo  time,"  another  man  put 
in — a  painter  by  trade — joining  the  group  as  he  spoke,  "and 
find  the  Burd  a  landed  proprietor  on  his  OAvn  broad  acres,  living 
in  state  and  bounty  in  the  baronial  Hall,  lord  of  Burleigh,  fair 
and  free,  or  whatever  other  name  the  place  may  be  called  by! " 

"  If  I  invite  you  to  come,"  Hugh  answered  significantly  with 
curt  emphasis. 

"  Ah  yes,  of  couTFe,"  the  artist  answered.  *'  I  dare  say  when 
you  start  your  carriage,  you'll  be  too  proud  to  remember  a  poor 
devil  of  an  oil  and  colonr-man  like  me. — In  those  days,  no  doubt 
you'll  migrate  like  all  the  rest  to  the  Athenaeum. — Well,  well, 
the  world  moves — once  every  twenty-four  hours  on  its  own  axis 
— and  in  the  long  run  we  all  move  with  it  and  go  up  together. — 
When  I'm  an  R.A.,  I'll  run  down  and  visit  you  at  the  ancestral 
mansion,  and  perhaps  paint  your  wife's  portrait — for  a  thousand 
guineas,  bien  entendu. — ^Aud  what  sort  of  a  body  is  the  prospec- 
tive father-in-law  ?  " 

♦*  Oh,  just  the  usual  typo  of  Suffolk  Squire,  don't  you  know," 
Massinger  replied  carelessly.  "  A  breeder  of  fat  oxen  and  of 
pigs,  a  pamphleteer  on  Gnano  and  on  Grain,  a  quarter-sessions 
chairman,  abler  none;  but  with  faint  reminiscences  still  of  an 
Oxford  trtiining  left  in  him  to  keep  the  milk  of  human  kindness 
from  turning  sour  by  long  exposure  to  the  pernicious  influence 
of  the  East  Anglian  sunshine.  I  should  enjoy  his  cociety  better, 
however,  if  I  were  a  trifle  deaf.  He  has  less  to  pay,  and  he 
sa^s  it  more,  than  any  other  man  of  my  acquaintance.  Still, 
he's  a  jolly  old  boy  enough,  as  old  boys  go.  We  shall  rub  along 
somehow  till  he  pops  off  the  hooks  and  leaves  us  the  paternal 
acres  on  our  own  account  to  make  merry  upon." 

So  far  Hugh  had  tried  with  decent  success  to  keep  up  his 
usual  appearance  of  careless  ease  and  languid  good-humour,  in 
spite  of  volcanic  internal  desires  to  avoid  the  painful  subject  of 
his  approaching  marriage  altogether.  He  was  schooling  himself, 
indeed,  to  face  society.  He  was  sure  to  hear  much  of  his 
Suffolk  trip,  and  it  was  well  to  get  used  to  it  as  early  as 


Ml 


iit 


I 


m 


\  y. 


138 


TIII8  MORTAL  COIL. 


I  ■>,■ 


if 


])npsil)lo.  But  tlio  next  qnostion  fftirly  blancliccT  liis  chook,  1>y 
loadiiif?  up  (li rent  to  tho  skeleton  in  the  cujtbQard:  "How  did 
you  lirst  come  to  get  acquainted  with  them  ?  " 

TliG  question  must  inevitably  bo  asked  aprain,  and  lie  nrnst  do 
his  best  to  faro  it  with  protended  equanimity.  "A  relation  of 
mine— a  distant  cousin — a  Girton  girl — was  living  with  the 
f;i:iilly  as  Miss  Meysey's  governess  or  companion  or  something," 
ho  answered  with  what  jauntinoss  ho  could  summon  up.  "  It 
was  through  her  that  I  first  got  to  know  my  future  wife.  And 
old  Mr.  Moyscy,  tho  coming  papa-in-law " 

He  stopped  dead  sliort.  Words  failer'.  him.  His  jaw  fell 
abruptly.  A  strange  thrill  seemed  to  course  through  his  frame. 
His  large  black  eyes  protruded  suddenly  from  their  sunken 
orbits;  his  olive-coloured  check  blanched  pale  and  pasty. 
Some  unexpected  emotion  had  evidently  checked  his  ready  flow 
of  speech.  Mitchison  and  the  painter  turned  round  in  sitrprise 
to  see  what  might  be  the  cause  of  this  unwonted  flutter.  It 
was  merely  Warren  Relf  who  had  entered  the  club,  and  was 
gazing  with  a  stony  British  stare  from  head  to  foot  at  Hugh 
Massinger. 

The  pnet  wavered,  but  he  did  not  flinch.  From  the  fixed 
look  in  Relf's  eye,  he  felt  certain  in  an  instant  that  the  skipper 
of  the  Mud-Turtle  knew  something — if  not  everything — of  his 
fatal  secret.  How  much  did  he  know?  and  how  much  not? — 
that  was  tho  question.  Had  he  tracked  Elsie  to  her  nameless 
grave  at  Orfordness?  Had  he  recognized  the  body  in  the 
mortuary  at  the  lighthouse?  Had  he  learned  from  the  cutter's 
man  the  horrid  truth  as  to  the  corpse's  identity?  All  these 
things  or  any  one  of  them  might  well  have  happened  to  tho 
owner  of  the  Mud- Turtle,  cruising  in  and  out  of  East  Anglian 
creeks  in  his  ubiquitous  little  vessel.  Warren  Relf  was  plainly 
a  dangerous  subject.  But  in  any  case,  Hugh  thought  with 
shame,  how  rash,  how  imprudent,  how  unworthy  of  himself 
thus  to  betray  in  Lis  own  face  and  features  the  terror  and 
astonishment  with  which  he  regarded  him!  He  might  have 
known  Eelf  was  likely  to  drop  in  any  day  at  the  club!  He 
might  have  known  he  would  sooner  or  later  meet  him  there ! 
He  might  have  prepared  beforehand  a  neat  little  lie  to  deliver 
pat  with  a  casual  air  of  truth  on  their  first  greeting!  And 
instead  of  all  that,  here  he  was,  discomposed  and  startled, 
gazing  the  painter  straight  in  the  f.^.ce  like  a  dazed  fool,  and 
never  knowing  how  or  where  on  earth  to  start  any  ordinary 
subject  of  polite  conversation.  For  the  first  time  in  his  adult 
life  he  was  so  taken  aback  with  childish  awe  and  mute  surprise 
that  he  felt  positively  relieved  when  Eelf  boarded  him  with  the 
double-barrelled  question :  "  And  how  did  you  leave  Miss  Mcyscy 
and  Miss  Chal loner,  Massinger  ?" 


AU  RENDEZVOUS  DE8  BOyS  CAM  All  AD  ES.    139 

Iluph  drew  him  nsiVlo  towards  the  back  of  the  room  and 
lowered  his  voice  still  more  markedly  in  reply.  "I  left  Miss 
Mcysey  very  well,"  he  ans'-  ored  with  as  much  ease  of  manner 
as  he  could  hastily  assume.  "  You  may  perhaps  have  heard 
from  rumour  or  from  the  public  prints  that  she  and  I  havo 
struck  up  an  enf:i;a{:i;ement.    In  the  lucid  lunfrna<,'o  of  tlie  news- 

{mpcr  announcements,  a  marriage  has  beun  detiiiitely  arranged 
)etwcen  us." 

Warren  Eelf  bent  his  head  in  sober  acquiescence.  "  I  had 
heard  so,"  he  said  with  grim  formality.  "  Your  siege  was 
successful.  You  carried  the  citadel  by  storm  that  day  in  the 
sandhills.— I  won't  congratulate  you.  You  know  my  opinion 
already  of  marriages  arranged  upon  that  mercantile  basis.  I 
told  it  you  beforehand.  We  need  not  now  recur  to  the  subject. 
— But  Miss  Challoner? — ITow  about  her?  Did  you  leave  her 
well?  Is  she  still  at  Whitestrand?"  He  looked  his  man 
through  and  through  as  he  spoke,  with  a  cold  stern  light  in 
those  truthful  eyes  of  his. 

Hugh  Massinger  shuttled  uneasily  before  his  steadfnst  glance. 
Was  it  only  his  own  poor  gnilty  conscience,  or  did  Eelf  know 
all  V  he  wondered  silently.  The  man  was  eyeing  hira  like  his 
evil  angel.  He  longed  for  time  to  pause  and  reflect;  to  think 
out  the  best  possible  n(m-comniitting  lie  in  answer  to  this 
direct  and  leading  question.  How  to  parry  that  deadly  thrust 
on  the  spur  of  the  moment  he  knew  not.  Relf  was  gazing  at 
him  still  intently.  Hesitation  would  be  fatal.  He  blundered 
into  the  first,  form  of  answer  that  came  uppermost.  *'  My 
cousin  Elsie  has  gone  away,"  he  stammered  out  in  hasto.  "  She 
— she  left  the  IMeyseys  quite  abruptly." 

"As  a  consequence  of  your  engagement?"  Relf  asked  sternly. 

This  was  going  one  step  too  far.  Hugh  Massinger  felt  really 
indignant  now,  and  his  indignation  enal)led  him  to  cover  his 
retreat  a  little  more  gracefully.  "  You  have  no  right  to  ask  mo 
that,"  ho  answered  in  gonniiie  anger.  "My  private  relations 
with  ray  own  family  are  surely  no  concern  of  yours  or  of  any 
one's." 

Warren  Eelf  bowe<l  his  head  grimly  once  more.  "  Where  has 
she  gone '?"  he  asked  in  a  searching  voice.  "I'm  interested  in 
Miss  Challoner.  I  may  venture  to  inquire  that  much  at  least. 
I'm  told  you've  heard  from  her.  Where  is  she  now?  Will  you 
kindly  tell  me  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  Hugh  answered  angrily,  driven  to  bay.  Then 
with  a  sudden  inspiration,  he  added  signiticantly :  "Do  you 
either?" 

"  Yes,"  Warren  Eelf  responded  with  solemn  directness. 

The  answer  took  Massinger  aback  once  more.  A  cold  shudder 
ran  down  his  spine.    Their  eyes  met.   For  a  moment  they  stared 


'H 


.^' 


,J  !; 


ill 


=11 


■m 


■ .  I 

T, 


:  n' 


140 


TUIS  MOllTAL   COIL. 


!    .      ) 


'!■    i. 


one  anotlior  out.  Then  Hugh's  glance  fell  slowly  and  heavily, 
lie  dared  not  ask  one  word  more. — Holf  must  liavo  tracked  her, 
for  certain,  to  tiio  liglitlionse.  IIo  must  have  soon  the  grave, 
perhaps  even  tlio  body. — This  was  too  terrible. — Ilonceforth,  it 
was  war  to  the  knife  between  tliem.  "IJast  thou  fouud  mo,  0 
my  enemy?"  ho  broke  oat  sullenly. 

"I  have  found  you,  Massin^ar,  and  T  have  found  you  out," 
the  painter  answered  in  a  very  low  voice,  with  a  sudden  bnrst 
of  unpremeditated  frankness.  "  I  know  you  now  for  exactly  the 
very  creature  you  are — a  liar,  a  forger,  a  coward,  and  only  two 
fingers'  width  Bhort  of  a  murderer. — Tlicro!  you  may  make 
what  use  you  like  of  that.— For  myself,  I  will  make  no  use  at  all 
of  it. — For  reasons  of  my  own,  I  will  let  you  go.  I  could  crush 
you  if  I  would,  but  I  prefer  to  screen  you.  Still,  I  tell  you  once 
for  all  the  truth.  IJemiinber  it  well. — I  know  it ;  you  kuow  it ; 
and  we  both  know  we  each  of  us  know  it." 

Hugh  Massinger's  fingers  itched  inexpressibly  that  moment  to 
close  round  the  painter's  lumest  bronzed  throat  in  a  wild  death- 
Ktruggle.  He  was  a  passionate  rann,  and  the  provocation  was 
terril)le.  The  provocation  was  terrible  because  it  was  all  true. 
He  was  a  liar,  a  forger,  a  coward — and  a  murderer ! — But  he 
dared  not— he  dared  not.  To  thrust  those  hateful  words  down 
L'elfs  throat  would  be  to  court  exposure,  and  worse  than  'ex- 
posure; and  exposure  was  just  what  Hugh  Massingcr  c  ' 
never  bear  to  face  like  a  man.  Sooner  than  that,  the  rive 
aconite.  He  must  swallow  it  all,  proud  soul  as  he  was.  He 
must  swallow  it  all,  now  and  for  ever. 

As  he  stood  there  irresolute,  with  blanched  lips  and  itcliing 
fingers,  his  nails  pressed  hard  into  the  palms  of  his  hands  in  the 
fierce  endeavour  to  repress  his  passion,  ho  felt  a  sudden  light 
touch  on  his  right  shoulder.  It  was  Hatlicrley  once  more.  "  I  say, 
Massinger,"  the  jV  '^rnalist  put  in  liglitly,  all  unconscious  of  the 
tragedy  ho  was  iuferrupting,  "come  down  and  knock  about  the 
balls  on  the  table  a  bit,  will  you  ?" 

If  Hugh  Massinger  was  to  go  on  living  at  all,  ho  must  go  on 
living  in  the  wonted  fashion  of  nineteenth-century  literate  hu- 
manity. Tragedy  must  bide  itself  behind  the  scenes;  in  public 
he  must  still  be  the  prince  of  high  comedians.  He  unclosed  his 
liands  and  let  go  his  breath  with  a  terrible  effort.  Holf  stood 
aside  to  let  him  pass.  Their  glances  met  as  Hugh  left  the  room 
arm  in  arm  with  Hathorley.  Kelt's  was  a  glance  of  contempt 
and  scorn;  Hugh  Massinger's  was  one  of  undying  hatred. 

He  had  murdered  Elsie,  and  liclf  knew  it.  *Tliat  was  the  way 
Massinger  interpreted  to  himself  the  "  Yes  "that  the  jiainter  had 
just  now  so  truthfully  and  directly  answered  him. 


.* 


' 


\ 


CHAPTER    XX. 


EVENTS   MARCH. 


"Papa  is  still  in  Scotland,"  Winifred  wrote  to  Hngh,  "slaying 
many  grouse;  and  nmmmaand  I  have  the  place  all  to  ourselves 
now,  80  we're  really  having  a  lovely  time,  eiijoving  our  holiday 
iiiimtmely  (though  you're  not  hero),  taking  down  everything, 
and  washing  and  polishing,  and  rearranging  things  again,  and 
l)laying  havoc  with  the  household  gods  generally.  We  expect 
papa  back  on  Friday.  His  birds  have  preceded  him.  Ido  hopo 
ho  remembered  to  send  you  a  brace  or  two.  I  gave  him  your 
town  address  before  he  left,  with  very  special  directions  to  let 
you  have  some  ;  but,  you  know,  you  men  always  forget  every- 
thing. As  soon  as  he  comes  home,  he'll  make  us  take  our 
alterations  all  down  again,  which  will  bo  a  horrid  nuisance,  for 
the  drawing-room  does  look  so  perfectly  lovely.  We've  done  it 
up  exactly  as  you  recommended,  with  the  sage  green  plush  for 
the  old  mantel-piece,  and  a  red  iipanese  table  in  the  dark 
corner;  and  I  really  think,  now  I  see  the  effect,  your  taste's 
simply  exquisite.  But  then,  you  know,  what  else  can  you 
expect  from  a  distinguished  poet !  You  always  do  everything 
beautifully— and  I  think  you're  a  darling." 

At  any  other  time  this  naive  girlish  appreciation  of  his  decor- 
ative talents  would  have  pleased  and  flattered  Hugh's  suscep- 
tible soul ;  for,  being  a  man,  he  was  of  course  vain ;  and  ho 
loved  a  pretty  girl's  approbation  dearly.  But  just  at  that 
moment  he  had  no  stomach  for  praise,  even  thougli  it  camo 
from  Sir  Hubert  Stanley;  and  whatever  faint  rising  flush  of 
pleasure  he  might  possibly  have  felt  at  his  little  fiancee's 
ecstatic  admiration  was  all  crushed  down  again  into  the  gall  of 
bitterness  by  the  sickening  refrain  of  her  repeated  postscripts  : 
"  No  further  news  yet  from  poor  Elsie. — Has  she  written  to  you  ? 
I  shall  be  simply //an^tc  if  I  don't  hear  from  her  soon.  She  can 
never  mean  to  leave  us  all  in  doubt  like  this.  I'm  going  to 
advertise  to-morrow  in  the  London  papers.  If  only  she  knew 
the  state  of  mind  she  was  plunging  me  into,  I'm  sure  she'd 
write  and  relieve  my  suspense,  which  is  just  agonizing, — A  kis-^s 
from  your  little  one :  in  the  corner  here.  Be  sure  you  kiss  it 
where  I've  put  the  cross.  Good-night,  darling  Hugh.— Yours 
ever,  Winifred." 

Hugh  flung  the  letter  down  on  the  floor  of  his  chambers  in  an 
agony  of  horror.    Was  his  crime  to  pursue  hira  thus  through  a 
whole  lifetime ?    Was  he  always  to  hoar  surmises,  conjectures, 
10 


\'i. 


il' 


142 


TUTS  MORTAL   COIL. 


speculations,  doubts  as  to  what  on  earth  had  become  ol'  Elsie  ? 
Was  he  never  to  bo  free  for  a  single  second  from  the  sliadow  of 
that  awful  pursuing  episode  ?  ^Vas  Winifred,  v/hen  she  became 
his  wedded  wife,  to  torture  and  rack  him  for  years  togetlier  with 
questions  and  hesitations  about  the  poor  dead  child  who  lay,  as 
ho  firmly  and  unreservedly  believed,  in  her  nameless  grave  by  the 
lighthouse  at  Orfordness? — There  was  only  one  possible  way 
out  of  it— a  way  that  Hugh  shrank  from  almost  as  much  as  ho 
shrank  from  the  terror  and  shame  of  exposure.  It  was  gihastly : 
it  was  gruesome:  it  was  past  endurance;  but  it  was  the  one 
solitary  way  of  safety.  He  must  write  a  letter  from  time  to 
time,  in  Elsie's  handwriting,  addressed  to  Winifred,  giving  a 
fictitious  account  of  Elsie's  doings  in  an  imaginary  home,  away 
over  somewhere  in  America  or  the  antipodes.  He  must  invent 
a  new  life  and  a  new  life-history,  under  the  Southern  Cross,  for 
poor  dead  Elsie :  he  must  keep  her  alive  like  a  character  in  a 
novel,  and  spin  her  fresh  surroundings  from  his  own  biain,  in 
some  little-known  and  inaccessible  quarter  of  tlie  universe. 

But  tlien,  what  a  slavery,  what  a  drudgery,  what  a  perpetual 
torture  I  His  soul  shrank  from  tiie  hideous  continued  deceit. 
To  have  perpetrated  that  one  old  fatal  forgery,  in  the  first  fresh 
flush  of  terror  and  remorse,  was  not  perhaps  quite  so  wicked, 
quite  so  horrible,  quite  so  soul-destroying  as  this  new  departure. 
He  had  then  at  least  the  poor  lame  excuse  of  a  pressing  emer- 
gency; and  it  was  once  only.  But  to  live  a  life  of  consistent 
lying — to  go  on  fathering  a  perennial  fraud — to  forge  pretontled 
letters  from  mail  to  mail — to  invent  a  long  tissue  of  successful 
falsehoods — and  that  about  a  matter  that  lay  nearest  aim 
dearest  to  his  own  wounded  and  remorseful  heart— all  thii?  was 
utterly  and  v^'hoUy  repugnant  to  Hugh  Massinger's  underlying 
nature.  Set  aside  the  wickedness  and  baseness  of  it  all,  the 
poet  was  a  proud  and  sensitive  man ;  and  lying  on  such  an  ex- 
tended scale  was  abhorrent  to  his  soul  from  its  mere  ignominy 
and  aesthetic  repulsiveness.  He  liked  the  truth:  he  admired 
the  open,  frank,  straightforward  way.  Tortuous  cinning  and 
mean  subterfuges  roused  his  profoundest  contempt  and  loathing 
— when  he  saw  them  in  others.  Up  till  now,  he  had  enjoyed  his 
own  unquestioning  self-respect.  Vain  and  shallow  and  un- 
scrupulous as  he  was,  he  had  hitherto  basked  serenely  in  the 
sunshine  of  his  own  personal  approbation.  He  had  done  nothing 
till  lately  that  sinned  against  his  private  and  peculiar  code  of 
morals,  such  as  it  was.  His  proposal  to  Winifred  had,  for  the 
first  time,  opened  the  sluices  of  the  great  unknown  within  him, 
and  fathomless  depths  of  deceit  and  crime  were  welling  up  now 
and  crowding  in  upon  him  to  drown  and  obliterate  whatever 
spark  or  scintillation  of  conscience  had  ever  been  his.  It  was  a 
hateful  sight.    Ho  shrunk  himself  from  the  ollort  to  realize  it,, 


Ig 


of 
;ho 
m, 
ow 
ver 

S  .1 


EVENTS  MARCn. 


143 


And  Warren  Rolf  knew  all !  That  in  itself  was  bad  enough. 
But  if  ho  also  invented  a  continuous  lie  to  palm  off  upon  Wini- 
fred and  her  unsuspecting  people,  then  Warren  Relf  at  least 
would  know  it  constantly  for  what  it  was,  and  despise  him  for  it 
even  more  profoundly  than  he  despised  him  at  present.  All 
that  was  horrible — horrible — horrible.  Yet  there  was  one  person 
wliose  opinion  mattered  to  him  fn,r  more  that  even  Warren  Eelf  s 
— one  person  who  would  hate  and  despise  with  a  deadly  hatred 
and  an  utter  scorn  the  horrid  pcrridy  of  his  proposed  line  of 
conduct.  That  person  was  one  with  whom  he  sat  and  drank 
familiarly  every  day,  with  whom  he  conversed  unreservedly 
riight  and  morning,  with  whom  he  lived  and  moved  and  had  his 
being.  He  could  never  escape  or  deceive  or  outA\it  Hugh  Mas- 
singer.  Patriai  quis  exsul  se  quoque  fugit?  Hugh  Massinger 
would  dog  him,  and  follow  his  footsteps  wherever  he  went,  with 
his  unfeigned  contempt  for  so  dirty  and  despicable  a  course  of 
action.  It  was  vile,  it  was  loathsome,  it  was  mean,  it  was 
horrible  in  its  ghastly  charnel-house  falseness  and  foulness;  and 
Hugh  Massinger  knew  it  perfectly.  If  he  yielded  to  this  last 
and  lowest  temptation  of  Satan,  he  might  walk  about  henceforth 
with  his  outer  man  a  whited  sepulchre,  but  within  he  would 
be  full  of  dead  men's  bones  and  vile  imaginings  of  impossible 
evil. 

Thinking  which  things  definitely  to  himself,  in  his  own  tor- 
mented and  horrified  soul,  he — sat  down  and  wiote  another 
forged  letter. 

It  was  a  hap^"  note,  written  as  if  in  the  hurry  and  bustle  of 
departure,  i'  il.e  very  eve  of  a  long  journey,  and  it  told  Wini- 
fred, in  rapid  general  terms,  that  Elsie  was  just  on  her  way  to 
the  continent,  en  route  for  Australia — no  matter  where.  She 
would  jdiu  her  steamer  (no  line  mentioned)  under  an  assumed 
name,  perhaps  at  Marseilles,  perhaps  at  Gcioa,  perhaps  at 
Naples,  perhaps  at  Brindisi.  Useless  to  dream  of  tracking  or 
identifying  her.  She  was  going  away  from  England  for  ever 
and  ever — this  last  underlined  in  feminine  fashion — and  it 
would  be  quite  hopeless  for  Winifred  to  cherish  the  vain  idea 
of  seeing  her  again  in  this  world  of  misfortunes.  Some  day, 
perhaps,  her  conduct  would  be  explained  'ind  ^ indicated;  for 
the  present,  it  must  suffice  that  letters  sent  to  her  at  the  address 
as  before — the  porter's  of  the  Cheyne  Eow  Club,  though  Hugh 
did  not  specifically  mention  that  fact — would  finally  reach  her 
by  private  arrangement.  Would  Winifred  accept  the  accora- 
}>anying  ring,  and  wear  it  always  on  her  own  finger,  as  a  parting 
gift  from  her  affectionate  and  misunderstood  friend,     Elsie? 

The  ring  was  one  from  the  little  jewel-case  he  had  stolen  that 
fatal  night  from  Elsie's  bedroom.  Profoundly  as  he  hated  and 
loathed  himself  for  his  decption,  ho  couldn't  help  stopping  half 


I 


Ut 


Jfl 


w 


144 


THIS  MORTAL  COIL. 


I 


J 'I 

3'' 


way  throti»h  to  admire  his  own  devilry  of  cleverness  in  sending 
that  ring  back  now  to  Winifred.  Nothing  could  be  so  calcu- 
lated to  disarm  suspicion.  Who  could  doubt  that  Elsie  was 
indeed  alive,  when  Elsie  not  only  wrote  letters  to  her  friends, 
but  sent  with  them  the  very  jewelry  from  her  own  fingers  as 
a  visible  pledge  and  token  of  her  identity? — Besides,  he  really 
wanted  Winifred  to  wear  it ;  be  wished  her  to  have  something 
that  once  was  Elssie's.  He  would  like  the  woman  he  was  now 
deceiving  to  be  linked  by  some  visible  bond  of  memory  to  the 
woman  he  had  deceived  and  lured  to  her  destruction. 

He  kissed  the  ring,  a  hot  burning  kiss,  and  wrapped  it  rever- 
ently and  tenderly  in  cotton-wool.  That  done,  he  gummed  and 
stamped  the  letter  with  a  resolute  air,  crushed  his  hat  firmly 
down  on  his  head,  and  strode  out  with  feverishly  long  strides 
from  his  rooms  in  Jermyu  Street  to  the  doubtful  hospitality  of 
the  Cheyne  Kow. 

Would  Warren  Rolf  be  there  again,  he  wondered?  Was  that 
man  to  poison  half  London  for  him  in  future? — Why  on  earth, 
knowing  the  whole  truth  about  Elsie— knowing  that  Elsie  was 
dead  and  buried  at  Orfordness — did  the  fellow  mean  to  hold  his 
vile  tongue  and  allow  him,  Hugh  Massinger,  to  put  about  this 
elaborate  fiction  unchecked,  of  her  sudden  and  causeless  dis- 
appearance? Inexplicable  quite!  The  thing  was  a  mystery; 
and  Hugh  Massinger  hated  mysteries.  He  could  never  know 
now  at  what  unexpected  moment  Warren  Relf  might  swoop 
down  upon  him  from  behind  with  a  dash  and  a  crash  and  an 
explosive  exposure. — He  was  working  ia  the  dark,  like  navvi(  s 
in  a  tunnel. — Surely  the  crash  must  come  some  day !  'i'he  roof 
must  collapse  and  crush  him  utterly.  It  was  ghastly  to  wait 
in  long  blind  expectation  of  it. 

The  forged  letter  still  remained  in  his  pocket  unposted.  He 
passed  a  couple  of  pillar-boxes,  but  could  not  nerve  himself  up 
to  drop  it  in.  Some  grain  of  grace  within  him  was  fighting 
hard  even  now  for  the  mastery  or  his  soul.  He  shrank  from 
committing  himself  irrevocably  by  a  single  act  to  that  despicable 
lite  of  ingrained  deception. 

In  the  smoking-room  at  the  club  he  found  nobody,  for  it  was 
still  early.  He  took  up  the  Times,  which  he  had  not  yet  had 
time  to  consult  that  morning.  In  the  Agony  Column,  a  familiar 
conjunction  of  names  attracted  his  eye  as  it  moved  down  the 
outer  sheet  They  were  the  two  names  never  out  of  his  thoughts 
for  a  moment  for  the  last  fortnight  **  Elsib,"  the  advertisement 
ran  in  clear  black  type,  "Do  write  to  me.  I  can  stand  this 
fearful  suspense  no  longer.  Only  a  few  lines  to  say  you  are 
well.    I  am  so  frightened.    Ever  yours,  Winifred." 

He  laid  the  paper  down  with  a  sudden  resolve,  and  striding 
across  the  room  gloomily  to  the  letter-box  on  the  mantel-piece, 


EVENTS  MARCH. 


145 


took  the  fateful  envelope  from  his  pocket  at  last,  and  held  it 
dubious,  between  finger  and  thumb,  dangling  loose  over  the 
slit  in  the  lid.  Heaven  and  hell  still  battled  fiercely  for  the 
upper  hand  within  him.  Should  he  drop  it  in  boldly,  or  should 
he  not?  To  be  or  not  to  be— a  liar  for  life?— that  was  the 
question.  The  envelope  trembled  between  his  finger  and 
*-liumb.  The  slit  in  the  box  yawned  hungry  below.  His  grasp 
was  lax.  The  letter  hung  by  a  corner  only.  Nor  was  his  im- 
pulse, even,  so  wholly  bad:  pity  for  Winifred  urged  him  on; 
remorse  and  horror  held  him  back  feebly.  Ho  knew  not  in  his 
own  soul  how  to  act ;  he  knew  he  was  weak  and  wicked  only. 

As  he  paused  and  hesitated,  unable  to  decide  for  good  or  evil 
— a  noise  at  the  door  made  him  start  and  waver. — Somebody 
coming!  Perhaps  Warren  Eelf. — That  "address  on  the  envelope 
— "  Miss  Meysey,  The  Hall,  Whitestrand,  Suffolk."— If  Eelf  saw 
it,  he  would  know  it  was — well — an  imitation  of  Elsie's  hand- 
writing. She  had  sent  a  note  to  Eelf  on  the  morning  of  the 
Fandhills  picric.  If  any  one  else  saw  it,  they  would  see  at  least 
it  was  a  letter  to  his  fiancee — and  they  would  chaff  him  accord- 
ingly with  chaff  that  he  hated,  or  perhaps  they  would  only 
smile  a  superior  smile  of  fatuous  recognition  and  smirking 
amusement,  lie  could  stand  neither— above  all,  not  Eelf. — 
His  tingers  relaxed  upon  the  cover  of  the  envelope. — Half  un- 
consciously, half  unwillingly,  he  loosened  his  hold.— Plop!  it 
foil  through  that  yawning  abyss,  three  inches  down,  but  as  deep 
as  perdition  itself — The  die  was  cast !    A  liar  for  a  lifetime ! 

He  turned  round,  and  Hatherley  the  journalist  stood  smiling 
pood-morning  by  the  open  doorway.  Hugh  Massinger  tried  his 
hardest  to  look  as  if  nothing  out  of  the  common  had  happened 
in  any  way.  He  nodded  to  Hatherley,  and  buried  his  face  once 
more  in  the  pages  of  the  Thnes.  "  The  Drought  in  Wales  " — 
"The  Bulgarian  Difficulty"— "Painful  Disturbances  on  the 
West  Coast  of  Africa." — Pali !  What  nonsense !  What  common- 
plnces  of  opinion !  It  made  his  gorge  rise  with  disgust  to  look 
at  them.  Wales  and  Bulgaria  and  the  West  Coast  of  Africa, 
when  Elsie  was  dead !  dead  and  unnoticed ! 

A  boy  in  buttons  brought  in  a  telegram— Central  News  Agency 
— and  fixed  it  by  the  corners  with  brass-headed  pins  in  a  vacant 
space  on  the  accustomed  notice-board.  Hatherley,  laying  down 
his  copy  of  Punch,  strolled  lazily  over  to  the  board  to  examine 
it.  "  Meysey !  Meysey  1 "  he  repeated  musingly. — "  ,Why,  Mas- 
singer,  that  must  bo  one  of  your  Whitestrand  Meysoys.  Pre- 
cious uncommon  name.    There  can't  be  many  of  them." 

Hugh  rose  and  glanced  at  the  new  telegram  unconcernedly. 
It  couldn't  have  much  to  do  with  himself!  But  its  terms 
brought  the  blood  with  a  hasty  rush  into  his  pale  cheek  again : 
*' Serious  Accident  on  the  Scotch  Moors. — Aberdeen,  Thursday. 


li; 


•'S 


M 


m 


I    '    ,  !ii:l 


ir; 


■■■■  m 
-  i 

g.    M:i) 


:1 
I  ! 


n  || 


146 


THIS  MOBTAL  COIL. 


mi 
III;  \ 


I 


As  Sir  Malcolm  Farquharson's  party  were  shooting  ovor  tlie 
Glenbeg  estate  yesterday,  near  Kincardine-O'Neil,  a  rifle  held 
by  Mr.  Wyville  Meysey  burst  suddenly,  wounding  the  unfortu- 
nate gentleman  in  the  face  and  neck,  and  lodging  a  splinter  of 
jagged  metal  in  his  left  temple.  He  was  conveyed  at  once  from 
the  spot  in  an  insensible  state  to  Invertanar  Castle,  where  he 
now  lies  in  a  most  precarious  condition.  His  wife  and  daughter 
were  immediately  telegraphed  for." 

"Invertanar,  10.40  a.m — Mr.  Wyville  Meysey,  a  guest  of 
Sir  Malcolm  Farquharson's  at  Invertanar  Ciistle,  wounded 
yesterday  by  the  bursting  of  his  rifle  on  the  Glenbeg  moors, 
expired  this  morning  very  suddenly  at  9.20.  The  untortunato 
gentleman  did  not  recover  consciousness  for  a  single  moment 
alter  the  fatal  accident.'' 

A  shudder  of  horror  ran  through  Hugh's  frame  as  he  realized 
the  meaning  of  that  curt  announcement.  Kot  for  the  mishap; 
not  for  Mrs.  Meysey;  not  for  Winifred:  oh,  dear  no;  but  for 
his  own  possible  or  probable  discomfiture. — His  first  thought 
was  a  characteristic  one.  Mr.  Meysey  had  died  unexpectedly. 
There  might  or  there  might  not  be  a  will  forthcoming. 
Guardians  might  or  might  not  bo  appointed  for  his  infant 
daughter.  The  estate  might  or  might  not  go  to  Winifred. 
He  might  or  he  might  not  now  be  permitted  to  marry  iicr. — 
If  she  happened  to  be  left  a  ward  in  Chancery,  for  example,  it 
would  be  a  hopeless  business:  his  chance  would  be  ruined. 
'J  he  court  would  never  consent  to  accept  him  as  Winifred's 
husband.    And  then — and  then  it  would  be  all  np  with  him. 

It  was  bad  enough  to  have  sold  his  own  soul  for  a  mess  o'f 
pottage — for  a  few  hundred  acres  of  miserable  salt  marsh, 
encroached  upon  by  the  sea  with  rapid  strides,  and  half  covered 
with  shifting,  drifting  sandhills.  It  was  bad  enough  to  have 
sacrificed  Elsie — dear,  tender,  delicate,  loving-hearted  Elsie,  his 
own  beautiful,  sacred,  dead  Elsie — to  that  wretched,  sordid, 
ineffective  avarice,  that  fractional  worship  of  a  silver-gilt  ]\Iani- 
mon.  He  had  regretted  all  that  in  sackcloth  and  ashes  for  one 
whole  endless  hopeless  fortnight  or  more,  already. — But  to  have 
sold  his  own  soul  and  to  have  sacrificed  Elsie  for  the  privilege 
of  being  rt-jected  by  Winifred's  guardian — for  the  chance  of 
being  publicly  and  ignominiously  jilted  by  the  Court  of  Chan- 
cery— for  the  opportunity  of  becoming  a  common  laughing- 
stock to  the  quidnuncs  of  Cheyne  liow  and  the  five  o'clock 
tea-tables  of  half  feminine  London — that  was  indeed  a  depth 
of  possible  degradation  from  which  his  heart  shrank  with 
infinite  throes  of  self-commiserating  reluctance.  He  could  sell 
his  own  soul  for  very  little,  and  despise  himself  well  for  the 
squalid  ignoble  bargain ;  but  to  sell  his  own  soul  for  absolutely 
nothing,  with  a  dose  of  well-deserved  ridicule  thrown  in  gratis, 


ti' 


CLEARING   THE  DECKS. 


147 


and  no  Elsie  to  console  hira  for  his  bitter  loss,  was  more  than 
even  Hugh  Massinger's  sense  of  mean  self-abnegation  could 
easily  swallow. 

He  flung  himself  back  unmanned,  in  the  big  leather-covered 
armchair,  and  let  the  abject  misery  of,  his  own  thoughts  over- 
come him  visibly  in  his  rueful  countenance. 

"  I  never  imagined,"  said  Hatberley  afterwards  to  his  friends 
the  Relfs,  "  that  Massinger  couid  possibly  have  felt  anything  so 
much  as  he  seemed  to  feel  the  sudden  death  of  his  prospective 
"ither-in-law,  when  he  read  that  telegram.  It  really  made  me 
think  better  of  the  fellow." 


m 


:!1 

"in 


CHAPTER  XXI. 


CLEARING  THE  DECKS. 


Warren  Eelp  had  arranged  for  his  mother  and  sister,  with 
Elsie  Challoner,  to  seek  the  friendly  shelter  of  San  Remo  early 
in  October.  The  sooner  away  from  Englaud  the  better.  Before 
they  went,  however,  to  avert  the  chance  of  a  disagretable 
encounter,  he  met  them  on  their  arrival  in  town  at  Liverpool 
Street,  and  saw  them  safely  across  to  the  continental  train  at 
London  Bridge.  It  chanced  to  be  the  very  self-same  day  that 
Hugh  Massinger  had  posted  his  second  forged  note  to  poor 
fatlicrless  Winifred. 

Elsie  dared  hardly  look  the  young  painter  in  the  face  even 
now,  for  shame  and  timidity ;  aud  Warren  Eelf,  res]iecting  her 
natural  sensitiveness,  concentrated  most  of  his  attention  on  his 
mother  and  Edie,  scarcely  allowing  Elsie  to  notice  by  shy  side- 
glances  his  unobtrusive  preparations  for  her  own  personal  com- 
fort on  the  journey.  But  Elsie's  quick  eye  observed  them  all, 
gratefully,  none  the  less  for  that.  She  liked  Warren :  it  was 
impossible  for  anybody  not  to  like  and  respect  the  frank  young 
painter,  with  his  honest  bronzed  face,  and  his  open,  manly,  out- 
spoken manners.  Timid  as  she  was  and  broken-hearted  still, 
she  could  not  go  away  from  England  for  ever  and  ever — for 
Elsie  never  meant  to  return  again — without  thanking  him  just 
once  in  a  few  short  words  for  all  his  kindness.  As  they  stood 
on  the  bare  and  windy  platform  with  which  the  Soiith-Eastern 
Railway  Company  woos  our  suifrages  at  London  Bridge,  she 
drew  him  aside  for  a  moment  from  his  mother  and  sister  with 
a  little  hasty  shrinking  glance  which  Warren  could  not  choose 
but  follow.  "  Mr.  Relf,"  she  said,  looking  down  at  the  floor  and 
fumbling  with  her  parasol,  "  I  want  to  thank  you ;  I  can't  go 
away  without  thanking  you  once." 


m 


r 


t 


Vi 


148 


THIS  MORTAL  COIL. 


II! 


Fe  saw  the  effort  it  had  cost  her  to  say  so  much,  and  a  wild 
lump  rose  sudden  in  his  throat  for  gratitude  and  pleasure. 
"  Miss  Challorier,"  he  answered,  looking  back  at  her  with  an 
unmistakable  light  in  his  earnest  eyes,  "say  nothing  else.  I 
am  more  than  sufficiently  thanked  already. — I  have  only  one 
thing  to  say  to  you  now.  I  know  you  wish  this  episode  kept 
Fecrot  from  every  one :  you  may  rely  upon  me  and  upon  my 
jiiate  in  the  yawl.  If  ever  in  my  life  I  can  be  of  any  service  to 
you,  remember  you  can  command  me. — If  not,  I  shall  never 
ngain  obtrude  myseK  upon  your  memory. — Good-bye,  good- 
bye." And  taking  her  hand  one  moment  in  his  own,  he  held  it 
for  a  second,  then  let  it  drop  again.  "  Kow  go,"  he  said  in  a 
tremulous  voice — "  go  back  to  Edie." 

Elsie — one  blush — went  back  as  he  bade  her.  "  Good-bye," 
she  said,  as  she  glided  from  his  side — "good-bye,  and  tliank 
you."  That  was  all  that  passed  between  those  two  that  day. 
Yet  Elsie  knew,  with  profound  regret,  as  tlie  train  steamed  oft' 
through  the  draughty  corridors  on  its  way  to  Dover,  that 
Warren  Relf  had  fallen  in  love  with  her;  and  Warren  Eelf, 
standing  alone  upon  the  dingy,  gusty  platform,  knew  with  an 
ecstasy  of  delight  and  joy  that  Elsie  Challoner  was  grateful  to 
Iiim  and  liked  him.  It  is  soniothing,  gratitude.  He  valued 
that  more  from  Elsie  Challoner  than  he  would  have  valued  love 
from  any  other  woman. 

With  profound  regret,  f(»r  her  part,  Elsie  saw  that  Warren 
Eelf  had  fallen  in  love  with  her ;  because  he  was  such  an  honest, 
manly,  straightforward,  good  fellow,  and  because  from  the  very 
first  moment  she  had  liked  him.  Yet  what  to  her  were  lovo 
and  lovers  now  ?  Her  heart  lay  buried  beneath  the  roots  of  the 
poplar  at  Whitestrand,  as  truly  as  Hugh  Massinger  thought  it 
lay  buried  in  the  cheap  sea-washed  grave  in  the  sand  at  Orford- 
ness.  She  was  grieved  to  think  this  brave  and  earnest  man 
should  have  fixed  his  heart  on  a  hopeless  object.  It  was  well 
she  was  going  to  San  llemo  for  ever.  In  the  whirl  and  bustle 
and  hurry  of  London  life,  Warren  Eelf  would  doubtless  soon 
forget  her.    But  some  faces  are  not  easily  forgotten. 

I'rom  London  Bridge,  Warren  Eelf  took  the  Metropolitan  to 
St.  James's  Park,  and  walked  across,  still  flushed  and  hot,  to 
Piccadilly.  At  the  club,  he  glanced  hastily  at  that  morning's 
paper.  The  first  paragraph  on  which  his  eye  lighted  was 
Winifred  Meysey's  earnest  advertisement  in  the  Agony  Column. 
It  gave  him  no  little  food  for  reflection.  If  ever  Elsie  saw  that 
advertisement,  it  might  alter  and  u])set  all  her  plans  for  the 
future — and  all  his  own  plans  into  the  bargain.  Already  she 
felt  profoundly  the  pain  and  shame  of  her  false  position  with 
Winifred  and  the  Meyseys :  that  much  Warr(!n  Kelt"  had  learned 
from  Edie.    If  only  she  knew  how  eagerly  W.niired  pined  for 


lit    Jl 


-JlJ— ■■t^w 


CLEAlilNQ   THE  DECKS. 


149 


news  of  her,  sho  might  he  tempted  after  all  to  hreak  her  reserve, 
to  abandon  her  concealment,  and  to  write  full  tidings  of  her 
present  whereabouts  to  her  poor  little  frightened  and  distressed 
pupil.  That  would  be  bad;  for  then  the  whole  truth  must 
sooner  or  later  come  out  before  the  world  ;  and  for  Elsie's  sake, 
for  Winifred's  sake,  perhaps  even  a  woe  bit  for  his  own  sake 
also,  Warren  Eolf  slirank  nnspeakably  from  that  unhappy 
exposure.  He  couldn't  bear  to  think  that  Elsie's  poor  broken 
bleeding  heart  should  be  laid  open  to  its  profoundest  recesses 
before  the  eyes  of  society,  for  every  daw  of  an  envious  old 
dowager  to  snap  and  pock  at.  He  hoped  Elsie  would  not  see 
the  advertisement.  If  she  did ,  he  feared  her  natural  tenderness 
and  her  sense  of  self-respect  would  compel  her  to  write  the 
whole  truth  to  Winifred. 

Sho  might  see  it  at  Marseilles,  for  they  were  going  to  run 
right  through  to  the  Mediterranean  by  tho  special  express,  stop- 
ping a  night  to  rest  themselves  at  the  Hotel  du  Louvre  in  the 
hue  Cannebiere.  Edie  would  be  sure  to  look  at  the  Times,  and 
if  she  saw  the  advertisement,  to  show  it  to  Elsie. 

But  even  if  she  didn't,  ought  he  not  himself  to  call  her  atten- 
tion to  it?  Was  it  right  of  him,  having  seen  it,  not  to  tell  her 
of  it?  .Should  he  not  rather  leave  to  Elsie  herself  the  decision 
what  course  she  thought  best  to  take  under  these  special 
circumstances  ? 

He  shrank  from  doing  it.  It  grieved  him  to  the  quick  to  strain 
her  poor  broken  heart  any  further.  She  had  sutfored  so  much  : 
why  rake  it  all  up  again  ?  And  even  as  he  thought  all  these 
things,  he  knew  each  moment  with  profounder  certainty  than 
ever  that  he  loved  Elsie.  There  is  nothing  on  earth  to  excite 
a  man's  love  for  a  beautiful  woman  like  being  compelled  to  take 
tender  care  for  that  woman's  happiness — having  a  gentle  solici- 
tude for  her  most  sacred  feelings  thrust  upon  one  by  circum- 
stances as  an  absolute  necessity.— Still,  Warren  Eelf  was  above 
all  things  honest  and  trustworthy.  Not  to  send  that  advertise- 
ment straight  to  Elsie,  even  at  the  risk  of  hurting  her  own 
feelings,  would  constitute  in  some  sort,  he  felt,  a  breach  of 
contidence,  a  constructive  falsehood,  or  at  the  very  best  a  snp' 
pressio  veri ;  and  Warren  Eelf  was  too  utterly  and  transparently 
truthful  to  allow  for  a  moment  any  paltering  with  essential 
verities. — He  sighed  a  sigh  of  profound  regret  as  he  took  his 
penknife  with  lingering  hesitation  from  his  waistcoat  pocket. 
But  he  boldly  cut  out  the  advertisement  from  tlie  Agony 
Column,  none  the  less,  thereby  defacing  the  first  page  of  the 
Times,  and  rendering  himself  liable  to  the  censure  of  the  com- 
mittee for  wanton  injury  to  the  club  property;  after  the  per- 
petration of  which  heinous  offence  he  walked  gravely  and 
soberly    into   the    adjoining  writing-rojm  and  sat  down   to 


i ; 

I       1    1 

I       1 

\\     ■ 

' 

^        1 

XiFn 


■  :'.m 


i    i 


* 


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'.' '  ■ 


u 


t    H 


t:  1  ll 

''4 

i  it 


;i 


150 


THIS  MORTAL   COIL. 


1  1-1 


!  Jti 


indite  a  hasty  note  intended  for  his  sister  at  the  Hotel  du 
Louvre : 

"My  dear  Edib, 

"  Just  after  yon  loft,  I  can^ht  sij^ht  of  enclosed  adver- 
tisement in  the  second  column  of  this  morning's  Times.  Show 
it  to  Her.  I  can't  bear  to  send  it — I  can't  bear  to  cause  her 
any  further  troulile  or  embarrassment  of  any  sort  after  all  she 
lias  suffered;  and  yet — it  would  be  wrong,  I  feel,  to  conceal  it 
from  her.  If  she  takes  my  advice,  she  will  not  answer  it 
Better  let  things  remain  as  they  are.  To  write  one  lino  would 
be  to  upset  all.  For  heaven's  sake,  don't  show  Her  this  letter. 
"  With  love  to  you  Iwth  and  kind  regards  to  Her, 

"  Your  atlcctionate  brother, 

"  W.  R." 

He  addressed  the  letter,  "  Miss  Eelf,  Hotel  du  Louvre,  Mar- 
seilles," and  went  over  with  it  to  the  box  on  the  mantel-shelf, 
where  Hugh  Massingcr's  letter  was  already  lying. 

When  Edie  Eelf  received  that  letter  next  evening  at  the  hotel 
in  the  Rue  Cannebiere,  she  looked  at  it  once  and  glanced  over 
at  Elsie.  She  looked  at  it  twice  and  glanced  over  at  Elsie. 
She  looked  at  it  a  third  time — and  tlien,  with  a  woman's  sudden 
resolve,  she  did  exactly  what  Wanen  himself  had  told  her  not 
to  do— she  handed  it  across  the  table  to  Elsie. 

Hugh's  plot  trembled  indeed  in  the  balance  that  moment; 
for  if  only  Elsie  wrote  to  Winifred,  ignoring  of  course  his  last 
forged  letter,  then  lying  on  the  hall  table  at  V/hitestrand,  all 
would  have  been  up  with  him.  His  lie  would  have  come  home 
to  him  straight  as  a  lie.  The  two  letters  would  in  all  proba- 
bility not  have  coincided.  Winifred  would  have  known  him 
from  that  day  forth  for  just  what  he  was — a  liar — and  a  forger. 

And  yet  if,  by  that  simple  and  natural  coincidence,  Elsie  had 
sent  a  letter  from  Marseilles  merely  assuring  Winifred  of  her 
safety  and  answering  the  advertisement,  it  would  have  fallen  in 
completely  with  Hugh's  plot,  and  rendered  Winifred's  assurance 
doubly  certain.  Elsie  had  sailed  to  Australia  by  way  of  Mar- 
seilles, then.  In  a  novel,  that  coincidence  would  surely  have 
occurred.  In  real  life,  it  might  easily  have  done  so,  but  as  a 
matter  of  fact  it  didn't;  for  Elsie  read  the  letter  slowly  first, 
and  then  the  advertisement. 

"  Poor  fellow  I "  she  said  as  she  passed  the  letter  bank  again 
to  Edie.  "  It  was  very  kind  of  him ,  and  he  did  quite  right. — 
I  think  I  shall  take  his  advice,  after  all. — It's  terribly  difficult 
to  know  what  one  ought  to  do.  But  I  don't  think  I  shall  write 
to  Winifred." 

Not  for  herself.    She  could  bear  the  exposure,  if  it  was  to 


CLEARING   THE  DECKS. 


151 


Favo  Winifred.  But  for  Winifred's  sake,  for  poor  dear  Wini- 
fred's.   She  couldn't  deprive  hor  of  her  now  lover. 

Ought  she  to  let  Winifred  marry  him?  What  trouhle  might 
not  yet  bo  in  store  for  \Vii)ifrcd? — No,  no.  Hugh  would  surely 
be  kinder  to  her.  He  bad  sacrificed  one  loving  heart  for  her 
sake ;  he  was  not  likely  now  to  break  another. 

How  little  we  all  can  judge  for  the  best.  It  would  have  been 
better  for  Elsie  and  better  for  Winifred,  if  Elsie  had  done  as 
Warren  Keif  did,  and  not  as  ho  said— if  she  hud  written  the 
truth,  and  the  whole  truth  at  once  to  Winifred,  allowing  her  to 
be  her  own  judge  in  tlie  matter.  But  Elsie  had  not  the  heart 
to  crush  Winifred's  dream;  and  very  naturally.  No  one  can 
blame  a  woman  for  refusing  to  act  with  more  than  human 
de  vol  ion  and  foresight. 

Hugh  Massinger  had  left  the  headquarters  of  Bohemia  for 
twenty  minutes  at  the  exact  moment  wlien  Warren  lielf  entered 
the  Cheyne  liow  Club.  He  had  gone  to  telegraph  his  respeciful 
condolences  to  Winifred  and  Mrs.  Meysey  at  luvertanar  Castle, 
(m  their  sad  loss,  with  conventional  politeness.  When  he  came 
back,  he  found,  to  his  sur])rise,  the  copy  of  the  Times  still  lying 
open  on  the  smoking-room  table;  but  Winifred's  advertisement 
was  cut  clean  out  of  the  Agony  Column  with  a  sharp  penknife. 
In  a  moment  he  said  to  himself,  aghast:  "Some  enemy  hath 
done  thi?  thing."  It  must  have  been  l^elf !  Nobody  else  in  the 
club  knew  anything.  Such  espionnge  was  intolerable,  unen- 
durable, not  to  bo  permitted.  For  three  days  he  had  been 
trembling  and  chafing  at  the  horrid  fact  that  Eelf  knew  all  and 
might  denounce  and  ruin  him.  That  alone  was  bad  enough. 
]}ut  that  "Relf  should  be  plotting  and  intriguing  against  him ! 
That  Relf  should  use  his  sinister  knowledge  for  some  evil  end! 
That  lielf  should  go  spying  and  eavesdropping  and  squirming 
about  like  a  common  detective!  The  idea  was  Mrly  past 
endurance.  Among  gentlemen  such  things  were  not  to  be  per- 
mitted.   Hugh  INIassinger  was  prepared  not  to  jiermit  them. 

He  passed  a  day  and  night  of  inexpressible  annoyance.  This 
situation  was  getting  too  much  for  him.  He  was  fighting  in 
the  dark :  ho  didn't  understand  Warren  Rolf's  silence.  If  the 
fellow  meant  to  crush  him,  for  what  was  he  waiting?  Hugh 
could  not  hold  all  the  threads  in  his  mind  together.  He  felt  as 
though  Warren  Rolf  was  going  to  make,  not  only  the  Cheyne 
Row  Club,  but  all  London  altogether  too  hoi  for  him.  To  have 
drowned  Elsie,  to  be  jilted  by  Winifred,  and  to  be  baffled  after 
all  by  that  creature  Relf—this,  this  was  the  hideous  and  igno- 
minious future  he  saw  looming  now  visibly  before  him ! 

It  was  with  a  heavy  heart  that  next  evening  at  seven  ho 
dropped  into  the  club  dining-room.  Would  Relf  be  there?  he 
wondered  silently.    And  if  so,  what  course  would  Relf  adopt 


'  ' '  Sir 

I  % 


A 


152 


THIS  MORTAL   COIL. 


I   r. 


'V'.;!? 


towards  him  ?  Yes,  Eelf  wm  there,  at  a  corner  table,  as  good 
luck  would  have  it,  with  his  back  turned  to  him  safely  as  he 
entered;  and  that  fellow  Potts,  the  other  mudbank  artist — they 
hung  their  wretched  daubs  of  flat  Suffolk  seaboard  side  by  side 
fraternally  on  the  walls  of  the  Institute— was  dining  with  him 
and  concocting  mischief,  no  doubt,  for  the  house  of  Massinger. 
Hugh  half  determined  to  turn  and  flee:  then  all  that  was 
n)anly  and  genuine  within  him  revolted  at  once  against  that 
last  disgrace.  Ho  would  not  run  from  this  creature  Eelf.  He 
would  not  be  turned  out  of  his  own  clul) — he  was  a  member  of 
the  committee  and  a  founder  of  the  society.  He  would  face  it 
out  and  dine  in  spite  of  him. 

But  not  before  the  fellow's  very  eyes ;  that  was  more  than  in 
his  present  perturbed  condition  Hugli  Massinger  could  raanace 
to  stand.  He  skulked  quietly  round,  unseen  by  Eelf,  into  the 
side  alcove — a  recess  cut  off  by  an  arched  doorway— where  Jie 
gave  his  order  in  a  very  low  voice  to  Martin,  the  obsequious 
waiter.  Martin  was  surprised  at  so  much  reserve.  Mr.  Mas- 
singer, he  was  generally  the  very  freest  and  loudest-spoken 
gentleman  in  the  whole  houseful  of  'em.  He  always  talked,  he 
did,  as  if  the  club  and  the  kitchen  and  the  servants  all  belonged 
to  him. 

From  the  alcove,  by  a  special  interposition  of  fate,  Hugh  could 
hear  distinctly  what  Eelf  was  saying.  Strange — incredible — a 
singular  stroke  of  luck  :  he  had  indeed  caught  the  man  in  the 
very  act  and  moment  uf  conspiring. — They  were  talking  of  Elsie  I 
Their  conversation  came  to  him  distinct,  though  low.  Unnatural 
excitement  had  quickened  his  senses  to  a  strange  degree.  Ho 
heard  it  all — every  sound — every  syllable. 

"  Then  you  promise,  Frank,  on  your  word  of  honour  as  a 
gentleman,  you'll  never  breathe  a  word  of  this  or  of  any  part  of 
Miss  Challoner's  affair  to  anybody  anywhere  ?" 

*'  My  dear  boy,  I  promise,  that's  enouch.— I  see  the  necessity 
as  well  as  you  do.— So  you've  actually  got  the  letter,  have 
you?" 

"  I've  got  the  letter.  If  you  like,  I'll  read  it  to  you.  It's  here 
in  my  pocket.  I  have  to  restore  it  by  the  time  Mr.  Meysey 
returns  to-morrow." 

Mr.  Moyscy!  Eestore  it!  Then,  for  all  his  plotting:,  Eelf 
didn't  know  that  Mr.  Meysey  was  dead,  and  that  his  funeral  was 
lixed  to  take  place  at  Whitestraiid  on  Monday  or  Tuesday ! 

Ti'ere  was  a  short  pause.  What  letter  ?  ho  wondered.  Then 
Eelf  began  reading  in  a  low  tone :  "  My  darling  Winifred,  1  can 
hardly  make  up  my  mind  to  write  you  this  letter ;  and  yet  I 
must :  I  can  no  longer  avoid  it." 

Great  heavens,  it  was  his  own  forged  letter  to  Winifred !  How 
on  earth  had  it  ever  come  into  Eelf's  possession  1 


i 
I 


I 


CLEARING   THE  DECKS. 


15a 


Plot,  plot — plot  and  counterplot !  Dirty,  underhand ,  holo-and- 
ooruor  spy-business !  Relf  had  wheelded  it  out  of  tho  Meyseya 
somehow,  to  help  him  to  track  down  and  confront  his  enemy  I 
Or  else  he  had  suborned  one  of  the  WhitestraaU  servants  to  steal 
or  copy  their  master's  correspondence !  • 

He  heard  it  through  to  tho  last  word,  "  Ever  your  aflfectionate 
but  heart-broken  Elsie." 

What  were  they  going  to  say  next? — Nothing.  Potts  ju  t 
drew  a  long  breath  of  surprise,  and  th(n  whistled  shortly  and 
cnriously.  "  The  man's  a  blackguard,  to  have  broken  the  poor 
girl's  heart,"  he  obi-erved  at  last,  "let  alone  this.  He's  a  black- 
gunrd,  Rolf. — I'm  very  sorry  for  her. — And  what's  become  of 
Miss  Ohalloner  now,  if  it  isn't  indiscreet  to  ask  the  question?" 

"  Well,  Potts,  I've  only  taken  any  other  man  into  my  confi- 
dence at  all  in  this  matter,  because  you  knew  more  than  half 
already,  and  it  was  impossible,  without  telling  you  the  other 
half,  fully  to  make  you  feel  the  necessity  for  keeping  tho  strictest 
silence  about  it.  I'd  rather  not  tell  either  you  or  anybody 
exactly  where  Miss  Cballoner's  gone  now.  But  at  the  present 
moment,  if  you  wan't  to  know  the  precise  truth,  I've  no  doubt 
she's  at  Marseilles,  on  her  way  abroad  to  a  further  destination 
which  I  prefer  on  her  account  not  to  mention.  More  than  that 
it's  better  not  to  say.  Bat  she  wishes  it  kept  a  profound  secret, 
and  she  intends  never  to  return  to  England." 

As  Hugh  Massinger  heard  those  words,  those  reassuring 
words,  a  sudden  sense  of  freedom  and  lightness  burst  instantly 
over  him  in  a  wild  rush  of  reaction.  Aha !  aha !  poor  feeblo 
enemy !  Was  this  all  ?  Then  Relf  know  really  nothing !  That 
mysterious  "  Yes  "  of  his  was  a  fraud,  a  pretence,  a  mistake,  a 
delusion !  He  was  all  wrong,  all  wrong  and  in  error.  Instead 
of  knowing  that  Elsie  was  deud — dead  and  buried  in  her  name- 
less grave  at  Orforduess — ho  fancied  she  was  still  alive  and  in 
hiding  I  The  man  was  a  windbag.  To  think  he  should  have 
been  terrified — he,  Hugh  Massinger — by  such  a  mere  empty 
boastful  eavesdropper! — Why,  Keif,  after  all,  was  himself 
deceived  by  the  forged  letters  he  had  so  cleverly  palmed  off 
upon  them.  The  special  information  he  pretended  to  possess 
was  only  the  special  information  derived  from  Hugh  Mas- 
singer's  own  careful  and  admirable  forgeries.  He  hugged  him- 
self in  a  perfect  transport  of  delight.  The  load  was  lifted  as  if 
by  magic  from  his  brenst.  Tliere  was  nothing  on  earth  for 
him,  after  all,  to  be  afraid  of ! 

He  saw  it  all  at  a  glance  now. — Eelf  was  in  league  with  the 
servants  at  the  Meyseys'.  Some  prying  ladys-maid  or  dishonest 
flunkey  must  have  sent  him  the  first  letter  to  Winifred,  or  at 
least  a  copy  of  it :  nay,  more ;  he  or  she  must  have  intercepted 
the  second  one,  which  arrived  while  Winifred  was  on  her  way 


;t^iii 


'4 


r 


n;' 


164 


777/5  MORTAL   COIL 


§i| 


to  Scotlaiid— olso  how  could  Rclf  havo  luarrl  tin's  lust  newly 
flodged  fiction  iihout  tlio  jonrnoy  abroad— tlio  stoppage  at  Mar- 
nuilies — tlio  determination  never  to  return  to  England  V — And 
how  greedily  and  eaj^crly  the  man  swallowed  it  all — his  misty 
second-hand  servants'-hall  intbrmnlion  !  Iluf^li  positively 
despised  liim  in  his  own  mind  for  his  ready  ere  lulity  and  his 
mean  duplicity.  How  glibly  ho  retailed  the  plausible  story, 
with  nods  and  hints  and  additions  of  his  own :  "  At  the  present 
moment,  I've  no  doubt  she's  at  Marseilles,  on  her  way  abroad 
to  a  furtlier  destination,  which  I  prefer  on  her  account  not  to 
mention."  What  airs  and  graces  and  what  comic  importance 
the  fellow  put  on,  on  the  strength  of  his  familiarity  with  tins 
supposed  mystery !  Any  other  man  with  a  straightforward 
mind  would  havo  said  outright  plainly,  "to  Australia;"  but 
this  pretentious  jackanapes  with  liis  stolen  inforniation  must 
make  up  a  little  mystilicatiou  all  of  his  own,  to  give  himself 
importance  in  the  eyes  of  his  greedy  gobemouche  of  a  companion. 
It  was  too  grotesciue!  too  utterly  ridiculous!  And  this  was  the 
man  of  whom  he  hud  been  so  afraid !  His  own  dupe !  the  ready 
fool  who  swallowed  at  secom(-hand  such  idle  tattle  of  the 
servants'  liall,  and  employed  au  understrai)per  or  a  pretty 
souhiette  to  open  other  people's  letters  for  his  o'.vn  information! 
From  that  moment  forth,  Hugh  might  cordially  hate  him,  Hugh 
nu'ght  freely  despise  him;  but  ho  would  never,  never,  never  bo 
afraid  of  iiim. 

One  only  idea  left  some  sligliL  r^isj)ioion  of  uneasiness  on  his 
enlightened  mind.  He  hoped  the  lady's-maid — that  hypothetical 
lady's-maid — hail  sent  on  the  fortjed  letter  —after  re.iding  it — to 
Winicrc'l  Not  th;),t  poor  Winined  would  have  ihvo  to  think 
much  about  Klsie  at  present,  in  the  midst  of  this  sudden  and 
unexpected  bercvoraeut :  em  W'.;ild  ].e  too  full  of  her  own  dead 
father,  no  doubt,  to  pay  any  grca!^  aitontion  to  her  governess's 
misfortunes.  But  still,  one  doesn't  like  one's  private  letters  to 
be  so  vulgarly  tampered  with.  And  the  worst  of  it  was,  he 
could  hardly  ask  her  whether  she  had  received  the  note  or  not. 
He  could  hardly  get  at  the  bottcmi  of  this  low  consj)iracy.  It 
was  his  policy  now  to  let  sleeping  dogs  lie.  The  less  said  about 
Elsie  the  better. 

Yet  in  his  heart  he  despised  Warren  Eelf  for  his  meanness. 
He  might  forge  him«olf:  nothing  low  or  ungentlemanly  or  de- 
grading in  forgery.  Dishonest,  if  you  Hie ;  dishonest,  not  vulgar. 
iiut  to  open  other  people's  letters — pali! — the  disg'-nting  snuill- 
ness  and  lowness  and  vulgarity  of  it  I  A  sort  of  under  loutmanish 
type  of  criminality.  J^ccca  fortiter,  if  yon  will,  of  course,  but 
don't  be  a  cad  and  a  disgrace  to  your  breeding. 


\ 


CIIArTER   XXll. 


HOLY  MATRIMONY. 


i 


The  way  of  tlie  tiansp,ros!=or  went  easy  for  a  wliilo  witli  Tlugh 
Massin}^^:  His  funds  ran  sniootliorthan  liu  could  himself  have 
exi)ectcd.  His  two  chief  bu^^btars  faded  away  by  (Uigrees  beforo 
the  strong  light  of  facts  into  pure  nonentity,  llclf  did  not  know 
that  Elsie  Challoner  lay  dead  and  buried  in  a  lonely  grave  at 
Oifordness;  and  Winifred  Meysey  was  not  kft  a  ward  ia 
Chancery,  or  otherwise  inconvenienced  and  strictly  tied  up  in 
her  plans  for  marrying  him.  On  the  eontraiy,  the  affairs  of  tho 
deceased  were  arranged  exactly  as  Hugh  linn  self  would  have 
wished  them  to  be  ordered.  The  will  in  particular  was  a  perfect 
gem :  Hugh  could  have  thrown  his  arms  round  the  blameless 
attorney  who  drew  it  up:  Mrs.  Mcyscy  appointed  sole  executrix 
and  guardian  of  the  infant;  Iho  estate  and  Hall  bequeathed 
absolutely  and  without  renuiinder  to  Winifred  in  person  ;  a  life- 
interest  in  certain  specified  sums  only,  as  arranged  by  settlement, 
to  the  relict  herself;  and  the  coast  all  clear  for  Hugh  Massinger. 
Everything  indeed  had  turned  out  for  the  best.  Tlie  late  Squire 
had  chosen  the  hapjuest  possible  monijnt  for  dyintr.  Tho  infant 
and  tho  guardian  were  on  Hugh's  own  side.  There  need  be  no 
long  engagement,  no  tremulous  expectation  of  dead  men's  shoes 
now :  nor  would  Hngh  have  to  put  up  for  an  indefinite  term  of 
years  with  tho  nuisance  of  a  father-in-law's  perpetual  benevolent 
interference  and  well-meant  dictation.  Even  the  settlements, 
those  tough  documents,  would  bo  all  drawn  np  to  suit  his  own 
digestion.  As  Hugh  sat,  decorously  lugubrious,  in  the  dining- 
room  at  Whitestrand  with  Mr.  Hebcrden,  tho  family  solicitor, 
two  days  after  the  funeral,  he  could  hardly  help  experiencing  a 
certain  subdued  sense  of  something  exceedingly  akin  to  stitltd 
gratitude  in  his  own  soul  towards  that  defective  breech-loader 
which  had  relieved  him  at  once  of  so  many  embarrassments,  and 
jnado  him  practically  Lord  of  the  Manor  of  Consumptum  per 
Mare,  in  the  hundred  of  Dunwich  and  county  of  Suffolk,  con- 
taining by  admeasurement  so  many  acres,  roods,  and  perches, 
be  the  same  more  or  less— and  mostly  Jess,  indeed,  as  tho  years 
proceeded. 

But  for  that  slight  drawback,  Hugh  cared  as  yet  absolutely 
nothing.  One  only  trouble,  one  visible  kill-joy,  darkened  his 
view  from  the  Hall  windows.  Every  principal  room  in  the  house 
faced  due  south.  Wherever  ho  looked,  from  the  drawing-room 
or  the  dining-room,  tho  library  or  the  vestibule,  the  boudoir  or 


"ii! 


V^! 


156 


THIS  MORTAL  COIL. 


the  billiard-room,  the  Whitestrand  poplar  rose  straight  and 
sheer,  as  conspicuous  as  ever,  by  the  brink  of  the  Char,  where 
sea  and  stream  met  together  ou  debatable  ground  in  angry  en- 
counter. Its  rugged  boles  formed  the  one  striking  and  beautiful 
object  in  the  whole  prospect  across  those  desolate  flats  of  sand 
and  salt  marsh,  but  to  Hugh  Massinger  that  ancient  tree  had 
now  become  instinct  with  awe  and  horror — a  visible  memorial 
of  his  own  crime — for  it  was  a  crime— and  of  poor  dead  Elsie  in 
her  nameless  grave  by  the  Low  Lighthouse.  He  grew  to  regard 
it  as  Elsie's  monument.  Day  after  day,  while  he  stopped  at 
Whitestrand,  he  rose  up  in  the  morning  with  aching  brows  from 
his  sleepless  bed — for  how  could  he  sleep,  with  the  breakers  that 
drowned  and  tossed  ashore  his  dear  dead  Elsie  thundering  wild 
songs  of  triumph  from  the  bar  in  his  ears  V — and  gazed  out  of 
his  window  over  the  dreary  outlook,  to  see  that  accusing  tree 
with  its  gnaiied  roots  confronting  him  ever,  full  in  face,  and 
poisoning  his  success  with  its  mute  witness  to  his  murdered 
victim.  Every  time  he  looked  out  upon  it,  he  heard  once  more 
that  wild,  wild  cry,  as  of  a  stricken  life,  when  Elsie  plunged  into 
the  careeiug  current.  Every  time  the  wind  shrieked  through 
its  creaking  branches  in  the  lonely  night,  the  shrieks  went  to 
his  heart  like  so  many  living  human  voices  crying  for  sympathy. 
He  hated  and  dispised  hiriself  in  the  very  midst  of  his  success. 
He  had  sold  his  own  soul  for  a  wasted  strip  of  suarap  and  marsh 
and  brake  and  sandhill,  p.nd  he  found  in  the  end  that  it  profited 
him  nothing. 

Still,  time  brings  alleviation  to  most  earthly  troubles.  Even 
remorse  grows  duller  with  age — till  the  day  comes  for  it  to  burst 
out  afresh  in  fuller  force  than  ever  and  goad  its  victim  on  to  a  final 
confession.  Days  and  weeks  and  months  rolled  by,  and  Hugh 
Massinger  by  slow  degrees  began  to  feel  that  Othello  was  himself 
again.  He  wrote,  as  of  old,  his  brilliant  leaders  every  day 
regularly  for  the  Morning  Telephone:  he  slashed  three- volume 
novels  with  as  much  vigour  as  ever,  and  rather  more  cynicism 
and  cruelty  than  before,  in  the  Monday  Rujistef' ;  he  touciied  the 
tender  stops  of  various  quills,  warbling  his  Doric  lay  to  Ballade 
and  Sonnet,  in  the  wonted  woods  of  the  Findico  Magazine  with 
endless  versatility.  Nor  was  that  all.  He  played  high  in  the 
evening  at  Pallavicini's,  more  recklessly  even  than  had  been  his 
ancient  use ;  for  was  not  his  future  now  assured  to  him  ?  and 
did  not  the  horrid  picture  of  his  dead  drowned  Elsie,  tossed 
friendless  on  the  bare  beach  at  Orfordness,  haunt  him  and  sting 
liim  with  its  perpetual  presence  to  seek  in  the  feverish  excite- 
ment of  roulette  some  momentary  forgetfulness  of  his  life's 
tragedy  ?  True,  his  rhymes  were  sadder  and  gloomier  now  than 
of  old,  and  his  play  wilder:  no  more  of  the  rollicking,  humorous, 
happy-go-lucky  bal lad-mo ngering  tiiat  alternated  in  the  "  Echoes 


HOLY  MATBIMONF, 


157 


from  Callimaclius  "  with  his  more  serious  verses :  his  sincerest 
laughter,  he  knew  himself,  with  some  pain  was  fraught,  since 
Elsie  left  hira.  But  in  tlieir  lieu  had  come  a  reckless  abandon- 
ment that  served  very  well  at  first  sight  instead  of  real  mirth 
or  heartfelt  geniality.  In  the  old  days,  Hugh  had  always 
cultivated  a  certain  casual  vein  of  cheerful  pessimism  :  he  had 
posed  as  the  man  who  drags  the  lengthening  chain  of  life  behind 
him  good-humouredly :  now,  a  grim  sardonic  smile  usurped  the 
place  of  his  pessimistic  bonhomie,  and  filled  his  pages  with  a 
Carlylese  gloom  that  was  utterly  alien  to  his  true  inborn  nature. 
Even  his  lighter  work  showed  traces  of  the  change.  His  way- 
ward article,  "Is  Death  Worth  Dying?"  in  the  Mneteenth 
Century^  was  full  of  bitterness;  and  his  clever  skit  on  the 
13!ood-and-Thunder  school  of  fiction,  entitled  "  The  Zululiad,'* 
and  published  as  a  Christmas  "shilling  shocker,"  had  a  sting 
and  a  venom  in  it  that  were  wholly  wanting  to  his  earlier 
performances  in  the  same  direction.  The  critics  said  Massinger 
was  suffering  from  a  shallow  spasm  of  Bryonic  affectation.  lie 
knew  himself  he  was  really  suffering  from  a  profound  fit  of  utter 
self-contempt  and  wild  despairing  carelessness  of  consequence. 

The  world  moves,  however,  as  Galileo  remarked,  in  si)ite  of 
our  sorrows.  Three  months  after  Wyville  Meysey's  death, 
VVhitestrand  received  its  new  master.  It  was  strange  to  find 
any  but  Meyseys  at  the  Hall,  for  Meyseys  had  dwelt  there  from 
time  immemorial ;  the  first  of  the  bankers,  even,  though  of  a 
younger  branch,  having  purchased  the  estate  with  his  newly- 
gotten  gold  from  an  elder  and  ruined  representative  of  the 
main  stock.  The  wedding  was  a  very  quiet  affair,  of  course : 
half-mourning  at  best,  with  no  show  or  tomfoolery ;  and  what 
was  of  much  more  importance  to  Hugh,  the  arrangements  for 
the  settlements  were  most  satisfactory.  The  family  solicitor 
wasn't  such  a  fool  as  to  make  things  unpleasant  for  his  new 
clieufc.  Winifred  was  a  nice  little  body  in  her  way,  too;  affec- 
tionately proud  of  her  captive  poet:  and  from  a  lordly  heiglit 
of  marital  superiority,  Hugh  rather  liked  the  pink  and  white 
small  woman  than  otlurwise.  But  he  didn't  mean  to  live 
much  at  VVhitestrand  either — "At  least  while  your  mother 
lasts,  my  child,"  he  said  cautiously  to  Winifred,  letting  her 
down  gently  by  gradual  stages,  and  saving  his  own  reputation 
for  kindly  consideration  at  the  same  moment.  "The  good  old 
soul  would  naturally  like  still  to  feel  herself  mistress  in  her  own 
house.  It  would  be  cruel  to  mothers-in-law  to  disturb  her  now. 
Whenever  we  come  down,  we'll  come  down  strictly  on  a  visit  to 
her.    But  for  ourselves,  we'll  nest  for  the  piesent  in  London." 

Nesting  in  London  suited  Winifred,  for  her  part,  excellently 
well.  In  poor  papa's  dny,  indeed,  the  Meyseys  had  felt  thcin- 
selvcs  of  late  far  too  deeply  impoverished— since  the  sandhills 
11 


-A 


!  i 


158 


THIS  MORTAL   COIL. 


r    * 


,1     I- 


swallowed  up  the  Yondstream  farms — even  to  go  up  to  town  in 
a  hired  house  for  a  few  weeks  or  so  in  the  height  of  the  season, 
as  they  had  once  been  wont  to  do,  during  the  golden  age  of  the 
agricultural  interest.  '1  he  struggle  to  keep  up  appearances  in 
the  old  home  on  a  reduced  income  had  occupied  to  the  full  their 
utmost  energies  during  these  latter  days  of  universal  depression. 
So  London  was  to  Winifred  a  practically  almost  unknown 
world,  rich  in  potentialities  of  varied  enjoyment.  She  had  been 
there  but  seldom,  on  a  visit  to  friends ;  and  she  knew  nothing 
as  yet  of  that  brilliant  circle  that  j^athers  round  Mrs.  Bouverie 
Barton's  Wednesday  evenings,  where  Hugh  Massinger  was  able 
to  introduce  her  with  distinction  and  credit.  True,  the  young 
couple  bejran  life  on  a  small  scale,  in  a  quiet  little  house — ^most 
resthetically  decorated  on  economical  principles — down  a  side- 
street  in  the  remote  recesses  of  Philistine  Bayswater.  But 
Hugh's  coterie,  though  unsuccessful,  was  nevertheless  ex  officio 
distinguished:  he  was  hand-in-glove  with  the  whole  Cheyne 
Eow  set — the  Royal  Academicians  still  in  embryo ;  the  Bishops 
Designate  of  fate  who  at  present  held  suburban  curacies ;  the 
Cabinet  Ministers  whose  budget  yet  lingered  in  domestic 
arrears;  the  germinating  judges  whose  chances  of  the  ermine 
were  confined  in  near  perspective  to  soup  at  sessions,  or  the 
smallest  of  small  devilling  for  rising  juniors.  They  were  not 
rich  in  this  world's  goods,  those  discounted  celebrities;  but 
they  were  a  lively  crew,  full  of  fun  and  fancy,  and  they  de- 
lighted Winifred  by  their  juvenile  exuberance  of  wit  and  elo- 
quence. She  voted  the  men  with  their  wives,  when  they  had 
and — which  wasn't  often,  for  Bohemia  can  seldom  afford  the 
luxury  of  matrimony — the  most  charming  society  she  had 
ever  met;  and  Bohemia  in  return  voted  "little  Mrs.  Mas- 
singer,"  in  the  words  of  its  accepted  mouthpiece  and  spokes- 
man, Hatherley,  "as  witty  a  piece  of  Eve's  flesh  as  any  in 
Jllyria."  The  little  "  arrangement  in  pink  and  white  "  became, 
indeed,  quite  a  noted  personage  in  the  narrow  world  of  Cbeyno 
Eow  society. 

To  say  the  truth,  Hugh  detested  Whitestrand.  He  never 
wanted  to  go  near  the  place  again,  now  that  he  had  made 
himself  in  very  deed  its  lord  and  master.  He  hated  the 
house,  the  grounds,  the  river;  but  above  all  he  hated  that 
funjreal  poplar,  that  seemed  to  rise  up  and  menace  him  each 
time  he  looked  at  it  with  the  pains  and  penalties  of  his  own  evil 
conscience.  At  Easter,  Winifred  dragged  him  home  once  more, 
to  visit  the  relict  in  her  lonely  mansion.  Tlie  Bard  went,  as  in 
duty  bound ;  but  the  duty  was  more  than  commonly  distaste- 
ful. They  reached  Whitestrand  late  at  night,  and  were  shown 
upstairs  at  once  into  a  large  front  bedroom.  Hugh's  heart 
leaped  up  in  his  mouth  when  he  saw  it.    It  was  Elsie's  room : 


HOLY  MATRIMONY. 


159 


the  room  into  which  ho  had  climbed  on  that  fateful  evening ; 
tlie  room  bound  closest  up  in  his  memory  with  the  hideous 
abiding  nightmare  jf  his  poisoned  life ;  the  room  he  had  nerer 
since  dared  to  enter  j  the  room  he  had  hoped  ne^*ir  more  lo 
look  upon. 

"Are  we  to  sloop  hero,  Winnie?"'  he  cried  aghast,  in  a 
tone  of  the  utmost  horror  and  dismay.  And  Winifred,  look- 
ing up  at  him  in  silent  surprise,  answered  merely  in  an  un- 
concerned voice :  **  Why,  yes,  my  dear  boy ;  what's  wrong  with 
the  roon:.  ?  It's  good  enough.  We're  to  sleep  here,  of  course — 
certainly." 

He  dared  say  no  more.  To  remonstrate  would  bo  madness. 
Any  reason  he  gave  must  seem  inadequate.  But  he  would 
.'^O'uer  have  slept  on  the  bare  ground  by  the  river-side  than 
luive  slept  that  night  in  that  desecrated  and  haunted  room  of 
Elsie's. 

He  did  not  sleep.  He  lay  awake  all  the  long  hours  through, 
and  murmured  to  himself,  ten  thousand  times  over,  "Elsie, 
Elsie,  Elsie,  Elsie ! "  His  lips  moved  as  he  murmured  sometimes. 
Winifred  opened  her  eyes  once— he  felt  her  open  them,  though  it 
was  as  dark  as  pitch — and  seemed  to  listen.  One's  senses  grow 
preternaturally  sharp  in  the  night  watches.  Could  she  have 
heard  that  mute  movement  of  his  silent  lips  ?  He  hoped  not. 
Oil  no;  it  was  inipoosible.  But  he  lay  awake  till  morning  in  a 
deadly  terror,  the  cold  sweat  standing  in  big  drops  on  his  brow, 
haunted  through  the  long  vigils  of  the  dreary  night  bj  that 
picture  of  Elsie,  in  her  pnle  white  dress,  with  arms  uplifted 
above  her  helpless  head,  flinging  herself  wildly  from  the  dim 
black  poplar,  through  the  gloom  of  evening,  upon  the  tender 
mercies  of  the  swift  dark  watur. 

Elsie,  Elsie,  Elsie,  Elsie  I  It  was  for  this  he  had  sold  and 
betiayed  his  Elsie ! 

In  the  morning  when  he  rose,  he  went  over  to  the  window — 
Elsie's  window,  round  whose  siiles  the  rich  wistaria  clambered 
so  luxuriantly — and  looked  out  with  weary  sleepless  eyes  across 
the  weary  dreary  strei  ii  of  barren  Suffolk  scenery.  It  was  still 
winter,  and  the  wistaria  on  the  wall  stood  bald  and  naked  and 
bare  of  foliage.  How  different  from  the  time  when  Elsie  lived 
there!  He  could  see  where  the  bough  had  broken  with  his 
weight  that  awful  night  of  Elsie's  disappearance.  Ho  gazed 
vacantly  across  tho  lawn  and  meadow  towards  the  tumbling 
sandhills.  "  Winifred,"  he  said — he  was  in  no  mood  just  theu 
to  call  her  Winnie— "what  a  big  bare  bundle  of  straight  tall 
switches  that  poplar  is!  So  gaunt  and  stiff !  I  hate  the  very 
sight  of  it.  It's  a  great  disfigurement.  I  wonder  your  peoplo 
ever  stood  it  so  long,  blocking  out  tho  view  from  their  draw- 
ing-room windows." 


!  '1 

!.  11 


m 


1 1  m 


I 


'  viiH 


Vi 


m 


\t 


>    !!,■, 


m 


'"'V 


411 


160 


THIS  MORTAL  COIL, 


:  II 


iii": 


I 


h 


.1 


Winifred  rose  from  the  dressing-table  and  looked  out  by 
his  side  in  blank  surprise.  "  Why,  Hugh,"  she  cried,  noting 
both  his  unwonted  tone  and  the  absence  of  the  now  customary 
pet  form  of  her  name,  "  how  can  you  say  so  ?  1  call  it  jnst 
lovely.  Blocking  out  the  view,  indeed  I  Why,  it  is  the  view. 
There's  nothing  else.  It's  the  only  good  point  in  the  whole 
picture,  I  love  to  see  it  even  in  winter— the  dear  old  poplar — 
so  tall  and  straight — with  its  twigs  etched  out  in  black  and 
gray  against  the  sky  like  that.  I  love  it  better  than  anything 
else  at  Whitestrand." 

Hugh  drummed  his  fingers  on  the  frosted  pane  impatiently. 
"  For  my  part,  I  hate  it,"  he  answered  in  a  short  but  sullen 
tone.  "  Whenever  I  come  to  live  at  Whitestrand,  I  shall  never 
rest  till  I've  cut  it  down  and  stubbed  it  up  from  the  routs 
entirely." 

"Hugh!" 

There  was  something  in  the  accent  tliat  made  him  start.  lie 
knew  why.  It  reminded  him  of  Elsie's  voice  as  she  cried  aloud 
"  Hugh ! "  in  her  horror  and  agony  upon  that  fatal  evening 
by  the  grim  old  poplar. 

"  Well,  Winnie,"  he  answered  much  more  tenderly.  The  tone 
had  melted  him. 

Winifred  flung  her  arms  around  him  with  every  sign  of  grief 
and  dismay  and  burst  into  a  sudden  flood  of  tears.  '"Oh,  Hugh," 
she  cried,  "  ^ou  don't  know  what  you  say :  you  can't  think  how 
you  grieve  me. — Don't  you  know  why  ?  You  must  surely  guess 
it. — It  isn't  that  the  Whitestrand  poplar's  a  famous  tree — a  sea- 
mark for  sailors — a  landmark  for  all  the  country  round — 
historical  almost,  not  to  say  celebrated !  It  isn't  that  it  was 
mentioned  by  Fuller  and  Drayton,  and  I'm  sure  I  don't  know 
how  many  other  famous  people — poor  papa  knew,  and  was 
fond  of  quoting  them.  It's  not  for  all  that,  though  for  that 
alona  I  should  be  sorry  to  lose  it,  sorrier  than  lor  anything 
else  in  all  Whitestrand.  But,  oh,  Hugh,  that  you  should  say 
so!  That  you  should  say,  'For  my  part,  I  hate  it.' — Why, 
Hugh,  it  was  on  the  roots  of  that  very  tree,  you  know,  that 
.vou  saw  me  for  the  very  first  time  in  my  life,  as  I  sat  there 
dangling  my  hat— with  Elsie.  It  was  from  the  roots  of  that 
tree  that  I  first  saw  you  and  fell  in  love  with  you,  when  you 
jumped  off  Mr.  Relf's  yawl  to  rescue  my  poor  little  half-crown 
hat  for  me. — It  was  there  you  first  won  my  heart — you  won  my 
heart — my  poor  little  heart. — And  to  think  you  really  want  to 
cut  down  that  tree  would  nearly,  very  nearly  break  it. — Hugh, 
dear  Hugh,  never,  never,  never  say  so  I " 

No  man  can  see  a  woman  cry  unmoved.  To  do  so  is  more  or 
less  than  human.  Hugh  laid  her  head  tenderly  on  his  big 
shoulder,  soothed  and  kissed  her  with  loving  gentleness,  swore 


UNDER   THE  PALM-TRKES. 


161 


he  was  speaking  without  due  thought  or  reflection,  declared 
that  he  loved  that  tree  every  bit  as  much  in  his  heart  as  she 
herself  did,  and  pacified  her  gradually  by  every  means  in  his 
large  repertory  of  masculine  blandishments.  But  deep  down 
in  his  bosom,  ho  crushed  his  despair.  *  If  ever  he  came  to  Jive 
at  Whitestrand,  then,  that  hateful  tree  must  for  ever  rise  up  in 
mute  accusation  to  bear  witness  against  him ! 

It  could  not!  It  should  not!  He  could  never  stand  ii 
Either  they  must  never  live  at  Whitestrand  at  all,  or  else — or 
else,  in  some  wny  unknown  to  Winifred,  he  must  manage  to  do 
away  with  the  Whitestrand  poplar. 


!i  *'' 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 


UNDER  THE  PALM-TEEE3. 

A  LONE  govemess,  even  though  she  be  a  Girton  girl,  vanishes 
readily  into  space  from  the  stage  of  society.  It's  wonderful  how 
very  little  she's  missed.  She  comes  and  goes  and  disappears  into 
vacancy,  almost  as  the  cook  and  the  housemaid  do  in  our  modern 
domestic  phantasmagoria ;  and  after  a  few  months,  everybody 
ceases  even  to  inquire  what  has  become  of  her.  Our  round 
horizon  knows  her  no  more.  If  ever  at  rare  intervals  she 
happens  to  flit  for  a  moment  across  our  zenith  again,  it  is  but  as 
arevenant  from  some  distant  sphere.  She  has  played  her  part 
in  life,  so  far  as  we  are  concerned,  when  she  has  "  finished  tho 
education  "  of  our  growing  girls,  as  wo  cheerfully  phrase  it — 
what  a  happy  idea  that  anybody's  education  could  ever  be 
finished!— and  we  lot  her  drop  out  altogether  from  our  scheme 
of  things  accordingly,  or  feel  her,  when  she  invades  our  orbit 
once  more,  as  inconvenient  as  all  other  revenanis  proverbially 
find  themselves.  Hence,  it  was  no  great  wonder  indeed  that 
Elsie  Challoner  should  subside  quietly  into  the  peaceful  routine 
of  her  new  residence  at  the  Villa  Kossa  at  San  Remo,  with  "  no 
questions  asked,"  as  the  advertisements  frankly  and  ingenuously 
word  it.  She  had  a  few  girl-friends  in  England — old  Girton 
companions — who  tracked  her  still  on  her  path  through  the 
cosmos,  and  to  these  she  wrote  unreservedly  as  to  her  present 
whereabouts.  She  didn't  enter  into  details,  of  course,  about  tho 
particular  way  she  came  to  leave  her  last  temporary  hoine  at  the 
Meyseys'  at  Whitestrand :  no  one  is  bound  to  speak  out  every- 
thing; but  she  said  in  plain  and  simple  language  she  had 
accepted  a  new  and  she  hoped  more  permanent  engagement  on 
tho  Riviera.  That  was  all.  She  concealed  nothing  and  added 
nothing.     Her  mild  deception  was  purely  negative.    She  had 


.11    ti 


i*|l!' 

::::j:|i 


if! 


'  h 


162 


THIS  MORTAL  COIL. 


Si  I 


Is'i 


no  wish  to  hide  the  fact  of  her  heing  alive  from  anybody  on 
earth  but  Hugh  and  Winifred ;  and  even  from  them,  she  desired 
to  hide  it  by  passive  rather  than  by  active  concealment. 

But  it  is  an  error  of  youth  to  underestimate  in  the  long  run 
the  interosculation  of  society  in  our  modern  Babylon.  You  may 
lurk  and  languish  and  lie  obscure  for  a  while ;  but  you  do  not 
permanently  evade  anybody :  you  may  suffer  eclipse,  but  you 
cannot  be  extinguished.  While  we  are  young  and  foolish,  we 
often  think  to  ourselves,  on  some  change  in  our  environment, 
that  Jones  or  Brown  has  now  dropped  entirely  out  of  our  private 
little  universe — that  we  may  safely  count  upon  never  again  hap- 
pening ujKjn  him  or  hearing  of  him  anyhow  or  anywhere.  We 
tell  Smith  something  we  know  or  suspect  about  Miss  Robinson, 
under  the  profound  \m\,  alas,  too  innocent  conviction  that  they 
two  revolve  in  totally  different  planes  of  life,  and  can  never  con- 
ceivably collide  against  one  another.  Wo  leave  Mauritius  or 
Eagle  City,  Nebraska,  and  imagine  we  are  quit  for  good  and  all 
of  the  insignificant  Mauritians  or  the  free-born,  free-mannered, 
and  free-spoken  citizens  of  that  far  western  mining  camp. 
1^'rror,  error,  sheer  juvenile  error!  As  comets  come  back  in 
time  from  the  abysses  of  space,  so  everybody  always  turns  up 
everywhere.  Jones  and  Brown  run  up  against  us  incontinently 
on  the  King's  Eoad  at  Brighton ;  or  occupy  the  next  table  to  our 
own  at  Dolmonico's ;  or  clap  us  on  the  shoulder  as  we  sit  with  a 
blanket  wrapped  round  our  shivering  forms,  intent  upon  the  too 
wintry  sunrise  on  the  summit  of  the  Eigi.  Miss  Robinson's 
plane  bisects  Smith's  horizon  at  right  angles  in  a  dahaheeyah,  on 
the  Upper  Nile,  or  discovers  our  treachery  at  an  hotel  at  Oroiava 
in  the  Canary  Islands.  Our  Mauritian  sugar-planter  calls  us 
over  the  coals  for  our  pernicious  views  on  differential  duties  and 
the  French  bounty  system  among  the  stormy  channels  of  the 
Outer  Hebrides;  and  Colonel  Bill  Manningham,  of  the  Eayh 
City  National  Banner,  intrudes  upon  the  quiet  of  our  suburban 
villa  at  remote  Surbiton  to  inquire,  with  Western  American 
picturesqueness  and  exuborance  of  vocabulary,  what  the  Hades 
we  meant  by  our  casual  description  of  Nebrnskan  society  as  a 
den  of  thieves,  in  the  last  number  of  the  St.  Petersburg  Monitor  f 
Oh  no;  in  the  pre-Columban  days  of  Boadicea,  and  Romulus  and 
Remus,  and  the  Twenty-tirst  Dynasty,  it  might  perhaps  have 
been  possible  to  mention  a  tact  at  Nineveh  or  Pekin  with  toler- 
able security  against  its  being  repeated  forthwith  in  the  palaces 
of  Mexico  or  the  huts  of  Honolulu ;  but  in  our  existing  world  of 
railways  and  telegraphs  and  penny  postage,  and  the  great  ubi- 
quitous special  correspondent,  when  Morse  and  Wheatstone  have 
wreaked  their  worst,  and  whosoever  enters  Jerusalem  by  the 
Jaffa  Gate  sees  a  red-lettered  notice-board  staring  him  in  the 
face,  "This  way  to  Cook's  Excursion  Office" — the  attempt  to 


UNDER   THE  PALM- TREE 8. 


163 


conceal  or  hush  up  anything  has  becomo  simply  and  purely  a 
ridiculous  fallacy.  When  we  go  to  Timbuctoo,  we  expect  to 
meet  with  some  of  our  wife's  relations  in  confidential  quarters ; 
and  we  are  not  surprised  when  tlie  aged  chief  who  entertains  us 
in  Parisian  full  dress  at  an  eight  o'clock  dinner  in  the  Fiji 
Islands  relates  to  us  some  pleasing  Oxford  anecdotes  of  the 
missionary  bishop  whom  in  unregentxato  days  he  assisted  to 
eat,  and  under  whom  we  ourselves  read  Aristotle  and  Tacitus 
as  undergraduates  at  dear  sleepy  old  Oriel.  More  than  ever 
nowadays  is  the  proverb  true,  "Quod  taciturn  velis  nemiui 
dixeris." 

It  was  ordained,  therefore,  in  the  nature  of  things,  that  sooner 
or  later  Hugh  Massinger  must  find  out  Elsie  Challoner  was 
really  living.  No  star  shoots  ever  beyond  the  limits  of  our 
ga'axy.  But  the  discovery  might  be  postponed  for  an  indefinite 
period ;  and  besides,  so  far  as  Elsie  herself  was  concerned,  her 
only  wish  was  to  keep  the  fact  secret  from  Hugh  in  person,  not 
from  the  rest  of  the  world  at  large ;  for  she  knew  everybody 
else  in  her  little  sphere  believed  her  merely  to  have  left  the 
^leyseys'  in  a  most  particular  and  unexplained  hurry.  Now, 
Hugh  for  his  part,  even  if  any  vague  rumour  of  her  having  been 
sighted  here  or  there  in  some  distant  nook  of  the  Kiviera  by  So. 
and-so  or  What's-his-name  might  happen  at  any  time  to  reach 
liis  ear,  would  certainly  set  it  down  in  his  own  heart  as  one 
more  proof  of  the  signal  success  of  his  own  clever  and  cunningly 
designed  deception.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  more  than  one  person 
did  accidentally,  in  the  course  of  conversation,  during  the  next 
few  years  mention  to  Hugh  that  somebody  had  said  Miss  Chal- 
loner had  been  seen  at  Marseilles  or  Cannes,  or  Genoa  or  some- 
where ;  and  Hugh  in  every  case  did  really  look  upon  it  only  as 
another  instance  of  Warren  Relf 's  blind  acceptance  of  his  bland 
little  fictions.  The  more  people  thought  Elsie  was  alive,  the 
more  did  Hugh  Massinger  in  his  own  heart  pride  himself  in- 
wardly on  the  cleverness  and  far-sightedness  of  the  plot  he  had 
laid  and  carried  out  that  awful  evening  at  the  Flshcrmaa's  Best 
at  Whitestrand  in  Suffolk. 

Thus  it  happened  that  Elsie  was  not  far  wrong,  for  the  present 
at  least,  in  her  calculation  of  chances  as  to  Hugh  and  Winifred. 

The  very  day  Elsie  reached  San  Eemo,  news  of  Mr.  Meysey's 
death  came  to  her  in  the  papers.  It  was  a  sudden  shock,  and 
the  temptation  to  write  tt>  Winifred  then  was  very  strong  ;  but 
Elsie  resisted  it.  She  had  o  resist  it — to  crush  down  her  sym- 
pathy for  sympathy's  sak;.  She  couldn't  bear  to  break  poor 
Winifred's  heart  at  such  a  moment  by  letting  her  know  to  the 
full  all  Hugh's  baseness.  It  was  hard  indeed  that  Winifred 
should  think  her  unfeeling,  should  call  her  ungrateful,  should 
bupposo  her  forgetful;  but  she  bore  even  that — for  Winifred's 


■y. 


'!• 


^:  i 

1'                1 

t; 

f                   i 

> 

.• 

i       ' 

f 

i:      r\ 

1: 

k 

I  i-  m 


i  ,ii 


■5:1: 


n 


1G4 


THIS  MORTAL  COIL. 


1 : 1 JH 


pake — without  murmuring.  Some  day,  perhaps,  Winifred  would 
know;  but  she  hoped  not.  For  Winifred's  sake,  she  hoped 
Winifred  would  never  find  out  what  manner  of  man  she  pro- 
posed to  marry. 

And  for  Hugh's,  too.  For  with  feminine  consistency  and 
steadfastness  of  feeling,  Elsie  even  now  could  not  learn  to  hate 
him.  Nay,  rather,  though  she  recognized  liow  vile  and  despic- 
able a  thing  he  was,  how  poor  in  spirit,  how  unworthy  of  her 
love,  she  loved  him  still — she  could  not  help  loving  him.  For 
H  ugh's  sake,  she  wished  it  all  kept  secret  for  ever  from  Wini- 
fred, even  though  she  herself  must  be  the  victim  and  the  scape- 
goat. Winifred  would  tliink  harshly  of  her  in  any  case:  why 
let  her  think  harshly  of  Hugh  also '? 

And  80,  in  the  little  Villa  Eossa  at  San  Rcmo,  among  that 
cahn  reposeful  scenery  of  olive  groves  and  Icirion  orchards, 
Elsie's  poor  wounded  heart  began  gradually  to  film  over  a  little 
with  external  healing.  She  had  the  blessed  deadening  influence 
of  daily  routine  to  keep  'ler  from  brooding ;  those  six  pleasant, 
delicate,  sensitive,  sympathetic  consumptive  girls  to  teach  and 
look  after  and  walk  out  with  poipctually.  They  were  bright 
young  girls,  as  often  happens  with  their  typo;  extremely  like 
Winified  herself  in  manner — too  like,  Elsie  son  etimes  thought 
in  her  own  heart  with  a  sigh  of  presentiment.  And  Elsie's  heart 
was  still  young,  too.  They  clambered  together,  like  girls  as 
they  were,  among  the  steep  hills  that  stretch  behind  the  town ; 
they  explored  that  pretty  coquettish  country ;  they  wandered 
along  the  beautiful  olive-clad  shore;  they  made  delightful  ex- 
cursions to  the  quaint  old  villages  on  the  mountain  sides — 
Taggia  and  Ceriana,  and  San  Romolo  and  Perinaldo— moulder- 
ing gray  houses  perched  upon  piimacles  of  mouldering  gray  rock, 
and  pierced  by  arr*ades  of  Moorish  gloom  and  medieval  solemnity. 
All  alike  helped  Elsie  to  beat  down  the  memory  of  her  grief,  or 
to  hold  it  at  bay  in  her  poor  tortured  bosom.  That  she  would 
ever  be  happy  again  was  more  than  in  her  most  sanguine 
moments  she  dared  to  expect ;  but  she  was  not  without  hope 
that  she  might  in  time  grow  at  least  insensible. 

One  morning  in  December,  at  the  Villa  Eossa,  about  the  hour 
for  early  breakfast,  Elsie  heard  a  light  knock  at  her  door.  It 
was  not  the  cook  with  the  cafe-au-lait  and  roll  and  tiny  pat  of 
butter  on  the  neat  small  tray  for  the  first  breakfast :  Eibio  knew 
that  much  by  the  lightness  of  the  knock.  "  Come  in,"  she  said ; 
and  the  door  opened  and  Edie  entered.  She  held  a  letter  in  her 
right  hand,  and  a  very  grave  look  sat  upon  her  usually  merry 
face.  "  Somebody  dead  ?  "  Elsie  thought  with  a  start.  But  no ; 
the  letter  was  not  black-bordered.  Edie  opened  it  and  drew 
from  it  slowly  a  small  piece  of  paper,  an  advertisement  from  the 
Times.    Then  l'>lsie's  breath  came  and  went  hard.    She  know 


UNDER   THE  PALM-TREES. 


1G5 


now  wliat  tlio  letter  portended.  Not  a  death :  not  a  death — but 
a  mtxrriago ! 

'•  Give  it  me,  dear,"  she  cried  alond  to  Edie.  "  Let  me  see  it 
at  once.    I  can  bear  it — I  can  bear  it", 

Edie  handed  the  cutting  to  her,  with  a  kiss  on  her  forehead, 
and  sat  with  her  arm  round  Elsie's  waist  as  the  poor  dazed  girl, 
half  erect  in  the  bed,  sat  up  and  read  that  final  seal  of  Hugh's 
crnel  betrayal :  "  On  Dec.  17th,  at  Whitcstrand  Parish  Church, 
Suffolk,  by  the  Rev.  Percy  W.  Bickerstetb,  M.A.,  cousin  of  the 
bride,  assisted  by  the  Eov.  J.  Walpole,  vicar,  Hugh  Edward  de 
Carteret  Massinger,  of  the  Inner  Temple,  Barrister-at-Iaw, 
to  Winifred  Mary,  only  daughter  of  the  late  Thomas  Wyville 
Meysey,  of  Whitestratid  Hall,  J.P." 

Elsie  gazed  at  the  cutting  long  and  sadly ;  then  she  murmured 
at  last  in  a  pained  voice :  "  And  he  thought  I  was  dead  1  Ho 
thought  he  had  killed  me !  '* 

Edie's  fiery  indignation  could  restrain  itself  no  longer.  **  He's 
a  wicked  man,"  slie  cried :  "  a  wicked,  bad,  horrible  creature ; 
and  I  don't  care  what  you  say,  Elsie ;  I  hope  he'll  be  punished 
as  he  well  deserves  for  his  cruelty  and  wickedness  to  you, 
darling." 

"  I  hope  not — I  pray  not,"  Elsie  answered  solemnly.  And  as 
she  said  it,  she  meant  it.    She  prayed  for  it  profoundly. 

After  a  while,  she  set  down  the  paper  on  the  table  by  her  bed- 
side, and  laying  her  head  on  Edie's  shoulder,  burst  into  tears — 
a  torrent  of  relief  for  her  burdiiied  feelings.  Edie  soothed  her 
and  wept  with  her,  tenderly.  For  half  an  hour  Elsie  cried  in 
silence;  then  she  rose  at  last, dried  her  eyes, burnt  the  little  slip 
of  paper  from  the  Times  resolutely,  and  said  to  Edie :  "  Now  it's 
all  over." 

"All  over?"  Edie  echoed  in  an  inquiring  voice. 

"  Yes,  darling,  all  over,"  Elsie  answered  very  firmly.  "  I  shall 
never,  never  cry  any  more  at  all  about  him.  He's  Winifred's 
now,  and  I  hope  he'll  l)e  good  to  her. — But,  oh,  Edie,  1  did  once 
love  him  so ! " 

And  the  winter  wore  away  slowly  at  San  Remo.  Elsie  had. 
crushed  down  her  love  firmly  in  her  heart  now — crushed  it 
down  and  stifled  it  to  some  real  purpose.  She  knew  Hugh  for 
just  what  he  was ;  she  recognized  his  coldness,  his  cru^Oty,  his 
little  care  for  her;  and  she  saw  no  sign — as  how  should  she  see 
it  ? — of  the  deadly  remorse  that  gnawed  from  time  to  time  at  his 
tortured  bosom.  The  winter  wore  away,  and  Elsie  was  glad  of 
it.    Time  was  making  her  regret  less  poignant. 

Early  in  February,  Edie  came  up  to  her  room  one  afternoon, 
when  the  six  consumptive  pupils  were  at  work  in  the  school- 
room below  with  the  old  Italian  music-master,  under  Mrs.  Reif's 


!i 


u 


V\ 


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'I 


'I 

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'  i.f 

,  1  ■ 

11 

^   ^      :>.!' 

\       sir 

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m. 

"■■  ■  jl  -  ■ 

k:.M 

166 


Til  18  MORTAL   COIL, 


■  V 


ill'  ii 


1; 


6f,    ! 


direction,  and  seating  herself,  girl-fashion,  on  the  bed,  began  to 
talk  about  her  brother  W'arron. 

Edie  seldom  talked  of  Warren  to  Elsie:  she  had  even 
ostentatiously  avoided  the  subjoot  hitherto,  for  reasons  of  her 
own  which  will  bo  instantly  obvious  to  the  meanest  intelligence. 
But  now,  by  a  sort  of  accident  of  design,  she  mentioned  casually 
something  about  how  he  had  always  taken  them,  most  years, 
for  so  many  nice  trips  in  his  yawl  to  the  lovely  places  on  the 
coast  about  Bordighera  and  Mentone,  and  even  Monte  Carle. 

"  Then  he  sometimes  comes  to  the  Eivirra  with  you,  does 
he?"  Elsie  asked  listlessly.  She  loved  Edie  and  dear  old  Mrs. 
Belf,  and  she  was  grateful  to  Wamn  for  his  chivalrous  kind- 
ness ;  but  she  could  hardly  pretend  to  feel  profoundly  interested 
in  him.  There  had  never  been  more  than  one  man  in  the  world 
for  her,  and  that  man  was  now  Winifred's  husband. 

"He  always  comes,"  Edie  answered,  with  a  signiticant  stress 
on  the  world  always.  "Indeed,  tliis  is  the  very  first  year  he's 
ever  missed  coming  since  we  first  wintered  here.  He  likes  to  be 
near  us  while  we're  on  the  coast.  It  gives  him  a  chance  of 
varying  his  subjects.  lie  ^ays  himself,  he's  always  inclined  to 
judge  of  genius  by  its  power  of  'leaking  out  in  a  fresh  place — 
not  always  repeating  its  own  sii>  sses.  In  summer  he  sketches 
round  the  mouth  of  the  Thames  and  the  North  Sea,  but  in 
winter  he  always  alters  the  venuo  to  the  Mediterranean. 
Variety's  good  for  a  painter,  he  thinks:  though,  to  be  sure,  that 
doesn't  really  matter  very  much  to  him,  because  nobody  ever  by 
any  chance  buys  his  pictures." 

"Can't  he  sell  them,  then?'*  Elsie  asked  more  curiously. 

"My  dear,  Warren's  a  born  artist,  not  a  picture-dealer; 
therefore,  of  course,  he  never  sells  anything.  If  he  were  a 
mere  dauber,  now,  there  might  be  some  chance  for  him.  Being 
a  real  painter,  he  paints,  natura  ly  enough,  but  he  makes  no 
money." 

"But  the  real  painter  always  succeeds  in  the  end,  doesn't 

he?" 

"  In  the  end,  yes ;  I  don't  doubt  that :  within  a  century  or 
two.  But  what's  the  good  of  succeeding,  pray,  a  hundred  years 
after  you're  dead  and  buried  ?  The  bankers  won't  discount  a 
posthumous  celebrity  for  you.  I  should  like  to  succeed  while  I 
was  alive  to  enjoy  it.  I'd  rather  have  a  modest  competence  in 
the  nineteenth  century  than  the  principal  niche  in  the  Temple 
of  Fame  in  the  middle  of  the  twentieth.  Besides,  W  irren 
doesn't  want  to  succeed  at  all,  dear  boy— at  least,  not  much.  I 
wish  to  goodness  he  did.  He  only  wants  to  paint  really  great 
pictures." 
*'  That's  the  same  thing,  isn't  it  ?— or  very  nearly." 
"i^ot  a  bit   of   it.     Quite    the   contrary  in   some   casea 


UNDER   THE  PALM-TREES. 


167 


Warren's  one  of  them.  He'll  never  Bucceerl  while  ho  lives, 
P'lor  child,  unless  his  amiable  sister  succeeds  in  making  him. 
And  that's  just  what  I  mean  to  do  in  time,  too,  dear. — I  mean 
to  make  Warren  earn  enough  to  keep  .himself — uud  a  wife  and 
fan  lily," 

Elsie  looked  down  at  the  carpet  uneasily.  It  wanted  darn- 
inj?.  "  Why  didn't  he  como  this  winter  as  usual  ?  "  she  asked  in 
haste,  to  turn  the  current  of  tlio  conversation. 

"Why?  Well,  why?  What  a  question  to  ask  I— Just 
because  you  were  liere,  Elsie." 

Elsie  examined  the  holes  in  the  Persian  pattern  on  the  floor 
by  her  side  with  minuter  care  and  precision  than  ever.  "That 
was  very  kind  of  him,"  she  said  aftir  a  pause,  defining  one  of 
them  with  the  point  of  her  shoe  accurately. 

•'  Too  kind,"  Edie  echoed — "too  kind,  and  too  sensitive." 

"I  tliink  not,"  Elsie  murmured  low.  She  was  blushing 
visibly,  and  the  carpet  was  engrossing  all  her  attention. 

"  And  /  think  ^/cs,"  Edie  answered  in  a  decisive  tone.  "  And 
when  I  think  yes,  olher  peo])lc  'mght  as  a  matter  of  course  to 
agree  with  me.  There's  such  a  thing  as  being  too  generous,  too 
delicate,  too  considerate,  too  thoughtful  for  others.  You've  no 
riglit  to  swamp  your  own  individuality.  And  I  say,  Warren 
ought  to  have  brought  the  yawl  round  to  San  Remo  long  ago, 
to  give  us  all  a  little  diversion,  and  not  gone  skulking  like  a 
pickpocket  al>out  Nice  and  Golfe  Jouan,  and  Toulon  and 
St.  Tropez,  for' a  coui)le  of  months  together  at  a  stretch,  with- 
out so  much  as  ever  even  running  over  here  to  see  his  own 
mother  and  sister  in  their  winter-quarters.  It's  not  respectful 
to  his  own  relations." 

Elsie  started.  "  Do  yon  mean  to  say,"  she  cried,  "he's  been 
as  near  as  Nice  without  coming  to  see  you  ?  " 

Edie  nodded.    "  Ever  since  Christmas." 

"No!    Not  really?" 

"  Yes,  my  child.  Eeally,  or  I  wouldn't  say  so.  It's  a  practice 
of  mine  to  tell  the  truth  and  shame  a  certain  individual. 
Warren  couldn't  stop  away  from  us  any  longer ;  so  he  took  the 
yawl  round  by  Gibraltar  after — after  the  17th  of  December,  you 
know." — Elsie  smiled  sadly. — "And  he's  been  knocking  about 
along  the  coast  round  hero  ever  since,  afraid  to  come  on — !or 
ftar  of  hurting  your  feelings,  Elsie." 

Elsie  rose  and  clapped  lier  hands  tight.  "  It  was  very  kind  of 
him,"  she  said.  "  He's  a  dear  good  fellow. — I  tliink  I  could 
bear  to  meet  him  now.  And  in  any  case,  I  think  he  ought  at 
least  to  come  over  and  so  you  and  your  mother.  It  would  be 
very  selfish  of  me,  very  wrong  of  me  to  keep  you  all  out  of  so 
much  pleasure. — Ask  him  to  come,  Edie. — Ttll  him — it  would 
uot  hurt  mo  very  much  to  see  him." 


Ill 


.1 


I  ^; 


:!f 


1C8 


THIS  MORTAL  COIL. 


Edio's  eyes  flnfihcd  mischiovons  firo.  *•  Tliat's  ft  protty  sort  of 
message  to  send  ftny  quo,"  she  cried,  with  some  slight  amusement. 
•'  Wo  usually  put  it  in  a  politer  form.  May  1  vary  it  a  little 
and  tell  him,  Klsie,  it  will  give  you  great  pleasure  to  see  himV" 

"If  you  like,"  Elsie  answered,  quite  simply  and  candidly. 
Ho  was  a  nice  fellow,  anu  he  was  Edio's  brother.  She  must 
grow  accustomed  to  meeting  him  somehow.  No  man  was  any- 
thing at  all  to  her  now. — And  perhaps  by  this  time  he  had  quite 
forgotten  his  foolish  fancy. 

Tlie  celebrated  centreboard  yawl  Mud-Turtle,  of  the  port  of 
London,  Ktlf,  muster,  seventeen  tons  registered  burden,  wns 
at  that  moment  lying  up  snugly  by  a  wooden  pier  in  tlie  quaint 
little  French  harbour  of  St.  Tropoz,  just  beyond  the  blue  peaks 
of  the  frontier  mountains.  "When  Potts  next  morning  early 
brought  a  letter  on  board,  addressed  to  the  skipper,  with  an 
Italian  stamp  duly  stuck  in  the  corner,  Warren  Ktlf  opened  it 
liastily  with  doubtful  expectations.  Its  contents  made  his 
honest  brown  cheek  burn  bright  red.  "  My  dear  old  Warren," 
the  communication  ran  shortly, "  you  moy  bring  the  yawl  round 
here  to  San  Remo  as  soon  as  you  like.  She  nays  you  may  come ; 
and  what's  more.  She  authorizes  me  to  inform  you  in  the 
politest  terms  that  it  will  give  her  very  great  pleasure  indeed  to 
nee  you.  So  you  can  easily  imrgine  the  pride  and  delight  with 
which  I  am  ever.  Your  aft'ectionate  and  successful  sister,  Edie." 

"  Edie's  a  brick  I "  Warren  said  to  himself  with  a  bound  of  his 
heart;  "and  it's  really  awfully  kind  of— Elsio." 

Before  ten  o'clo(^k  that  same  morning,  the  celebrated  centre- 
board yawl  Mud-Turtle,  manned  by  her  owner  and  his  constant 
companion,  was  under  way  with  a  favouring  wind,  and  scud- 
ding like  a  seabird,  with  all  canvas  on,  round  the  spit  of 
iJordighera,  ou  her  voyage  to  the  tiny  harbour  of  San  Eemo. 


CHAPTEE  XXIV. 

THE  BALANCE  QUIVERS. 

Maech,  April,  May  passed  away:  anemones  and  asphodels  camo 
and  wont;  nnrcissus  and  globeflower  bloomed  and  withered; 
and  Wanen  Eelf,  cruising  about  in  the  Mud-Turtle  round  the 
peacock-blue  bays  and  indentations  of  the  Genoese  Riviera,  bad 
spent  many  cloudless  days  in  quiet  happiness  at  the  pretty  little 
villa  among  the  clambering  olivo  terraces  on  the  slopes  at  San 
Eemo.  Elsie  had  learnt  at  least  to  tolerate  his  presence  now : 
she  no  longer  blushed  o,  vivid  crimson  when  she  saw  hiin 


T^ 


THE  BALANCE  QUIVERS. 


169 


comfnp;  np  the  zigzaj?  rojidway;  she  wasn't  nrnch  more  awk- 
ward before  him,  in  fact,  tliaii  with  other  creatures  of  lii.s  kox  in 
general;  nay,  more,  as  a  nicio  friend  she  rather  liked  and 
enjoyed  his  society  than  otherwise.  Not  to  have  liked  Warren 
Kelt,  indeed,  would  have  been  quite  un-pardonablo.  The  Itelt's 
liiid  all  shown  her  fo  much  kindness,  and  Warren  himself  had 
l)een  so  chivalrously  courteous,  that  even  a  heart  of  stone  nii;;lit 
surely  have  melted  somewhat  towards  the  manly  young  painter. 
And  Elsie's  heart,  in  s{)ito  of  Hui^li's  unkinducss,  was  by  no 
nuiuis  stony.  She  found  Warren,  in  his  rough  sailor  clothes, 
always  gentle,  always  nnobtrusive,  always  tlioutihtful,  always 
considerate;  and  as  Edie's  brother,  she  got  ou  with  him  (|uito 
as  conilortably  in  the  long  run  as  could  be  expected  of  anybody 
under  such  trying  circumstances. 

At  first,  to  be  sure,  she  couldn't  be  induced  to  hoird  the 
deck  of  the  l)usy  little  Mud-Turtle.  But  as  May  came  round 
with  its  warm  Italinn  sunshine,  Edie  so  absolutely  insisted  on 
lier  taking  a  trip  with  them  along  that  enchanted  coast  towards 
IMonuco  and  Villefranche,  beneath  the  ramping  crags  of  the 
Tote  du  Chien,  that  Elsie  at  last  gave  way  in  silence,  and 
accompanied  them  round  the  bays  and  headlands  and  road- 
steads of  the  Riviera  on  more  than  one  delightful  outing. 
Edie  was  beginning,  by  her  simple  domestic  faith  in  her 
brother's  profound  artistic  powers,  to  inspire  Elsie,  too,  with  a 
new  sort  of  interest  in  Warren's  future.  It  began  to  dawn 
upon  her  slowly,  in  a  dim  chaotic  fashion,  that  Warren  had 
really  a  most  unusual  love  for  the  byways  of  nature,  and  a 
singular  faculty  for  reading  and  interpreting  with  loving  skill 
her  hidden  hieroglyphics.  "My  dear,"  Edie  said  to  her  once, 
as  they  sat  on  deck  and  watched  Warren  labouring  with  cease- 
less care  at  the  minute  growth  of  a  spreading  stain  on  a  bare 
wall  of  seaward  rock,  "b  ,  Jf  succeed — he  must  succeed!  I 
mean  to  make  him.  Ha  shal-  bo  hung.  A  man  who  can  turn 
out  work  like  that  i.  ist  5v   nrt  in  the  end  his  recognition." 

"I  don't  wrnt  re-  >^ia'?t;oii, '  *Varren  answered  slowly,  putting 
a  few  more  liDjrc-.ing  micvu  .  ^pic  touches  to  the  wee  curved 
frondlcts  of  the  cj;.  p::.,;  I  oen.  "I  do  it  because  I  like  to  do 
it.  The  work  itself  is  its  own  reward.  If  only  I  could  earn 
enough  to  save  you  and  the  dear  old  Mater  from  having  to  toil 
and  moil  like  a  pair  of  galley-slaves,  Edie,  1  should  be  amply 
satisfied,  and  more  than  sat'juod. — I  confess,  I  should  like  to 
do  that,  of  course.  In  art,  as  elsewhere,  the  labourer  is  worthy 
of  his  hire,  no  doubt :  he  would  prefer  to  earn  his  own  bread 
and  butter.  It's  hard  to  work  and  work,  and  work  and  work, 
and  get  scarcely  any  sale  after  all  for  one's  pictures." 

"It'll  come  in  time,"  Edie  answered,  nodding  sagaciously. 
"People  will  iind  out  they're  compelled  at  last  to  recognize 


11 


!  !, 

'■1-1 


i  1 


) 


mn 


170 


THIS  MORTAL  COIL. 


»• 


w 


your  gen'UR.  And  that's  the  hest  success  of  all,  in  tho  long  run 
— the  success  that  comes  without  one's  ever  seeking  it.  Tho 
men  who  aim  at  succeeding,  succeed  for  a  day.  The  men  who 
work  at  their  art  for  their  art's  sake,  and  leave  success  to  mind 
its  own  business,  are  the  men  who  finally  live  for  ever." 

"It  doesn't  do  them  much  good,  though,  I'm  afraid,"  Warren 
answered,  with  a  sij;h,  hardly  lookinjj;  up  from  his  fragments  of 
orange-brown  vegetation.  **  They  seldom  live  to  see  tlicir  final 
triumph. 

*For  praise  is  his  who  builds  for  hia  own  a<rc  ; 
But  he  that  builda  for  time,  must  look  to  time  for  wage !  "* 

As  he  said  it,  he  glanced  aside  nervously  at  Elsie.  What  a  slip 
of  the  tongue !  Without  remembering  for  a  moment  whom  he 
was  quothig,  he  had  quoted  wit  i  tliouglitles^s  ease  a  familiar 
couplet  from  the  "  Echoes  from  Callimachns." 

Elsie's  face  showed  no  passing  sign  of  recognition,  howev  ^ 
Perhaps  she  had  never  read  the  lines  he  was  thinking  of; 
perhaps,  if  not,  she  had  quite  forgotten  them.  At  any  rate,  she 
only  murmured  reflectively  to  Edie:  "I  think,  with  you,  Mr. 
Eelf  must  succeed  in  the  end.  But  how  soon,  it  would  be 
difficult  to  say.  He'll  have  to  educate  his  public,  to  begin  with, 
up  to  his  own  level.  When  I  first  saw  his  work,  I  could  see 
very  little  myself  to  praise  in  it.  Now,  every  day,  I  see  more 
and  more.  It's  like  all  good  work ;  it  gains  upon  you  as  you 
study  it  closely." 

Warren  turned  round  to  her  with  a  face  like  a  girl's. 
"Thank  you,"  he  said  gently,  and  said  no  more.  But  she 
could  "see  that  her  praise  had  moved  him  to  the  core.  For  two 
or  three  minutes,  he  left  off  painting ;  he  only  fumbled  with  a 
dry  brush  at  the  outline  of  the  lichens,  and  protended  to  bo 
making  invisible  improvements  in  the  petty  details  of  his 
delicate  foreground.  She  observed  that  his  hand  was  trembling 
too  much  to  continue  work.  After  a  short  pause  he  laid  down 
his  palette  and  colours.  "  I  shall  leave  off  now,"  he  said,  "  till 
the  sun  gets  lower;  it's  too  hot  just  at  present  to  paint  properly." 

Elsie  pitied  the  poor  young  man  from  the  bottom  of  her  soul. 
She  was  really  afraid  he  was  falling  in  love  with  her.  And  if 
only  he  knew  how  hopeless  that  would  bel  She  had  a  heart 
once ;  and  Hugh  had  bruken  it. 

That  evening,  in  the  sacred  recess  of  Elsie's  room,  Edle  and 
Elsie  talked  things  over  together  in  girlish  confidence.  Tho 
summer  was  coming  on  apace  now.  What  was  Elsie  to  do 
when  the  Relfs  returned,  as  they  must  return,  to  England  ? 

She  could  never  go  l)ack.  That  was  a  fixed  point,  round 
which  as  pivot  the  rest  of  the  question  revolved  vaguely.    She 


THE  BALANCE  QUIVERS. 


171 


could  never  expose  herself  to  the  bare  chance  of  meeting  Hugh 
and — and  Mrs.  Massinger.  She  didn't  say  so,  of  course;  no 
need  to  say  it ;  she  was  far  too  profoundly  wounded  for  that. 
But  Edie  and  she  both  took  it  for  granted  in  perfect  silence. 
They  understood  one  another,  and  wanted  no  language  to 
communicate  their  feelings. 

Suddenly,  Edie  had  a  bright  idea :  why  not  go  to  St.  Martin 
Lantosque  ? 

Where's  St.  Martin  Lantosque?''  Elsie  asked  languidly.  Her 
own  future  was  not  a  subject  that  aroused  in  her  mind  any 
profound  or  enthusiastic  interest. 

"St.  Mai  tin  Lantosque,  my  dear,"  Edie  answered  with  her 
brisker,  more  inatter-of-fact  manner,  "  is  a  sort  of  patent  safety- 
valve  or  overflow  cistern  for  the  surplus  material  of  the  Nice 
season.  As  soon  as  the  summor  grows  unendurably  hot  on  the 
Promenade  des  Anglais,  the  population  of  the  pensions  and 
bote.  •  on  the  sea-front  manifest  a  mutually  repulsive  influence 
— like  he  particles  of  a  gas,  according  to  that  prodigiously 
learned  book  you  teach  the  girls  elementary  physics  out  of. 
The  heat,  in  fact,  acts  expansively;  it  drives  them  forcibly 
apart  in  all  directions — some  to  England,  some  to  St.  Peters- 
burg, some  to  America,  and  some  to  the  Italian  lakes  or  the 
Bernese  Oberland.  Well,  that's  what  becomes  of  most  of  them : 
tliey  melt  away  into  different  atmospheres ;  but  a  few  visitors — 
the  people  with  families  who  make  Nice  their  real  home,  not 
the  mere  sun-worsliip|)ers  who  want  to  loll  on  the  chairs  on  the 
Quai  Massena  or  in  the  Jardin  Public — retire  for  the  summer 
only  just  as  far  as  St.  Martin  Lantosque.  It's  a  jolly  little 
place,  right  up  among  the  mountains,  thirty  miles  or  so  behind 
Nice,  as  beautiful  as  a  butterfly,  and  as  cool  as  a  cucumber,  and 
supplied  with  all  the  necessaries  of  life,  from  afternoon  tea  to  a 
consular  chaplain.  It's  surrounded  by  the  eternal  snows,  if  you 
like  them  eternal ;  and  well  situated  for  penny  ices,  if  you  prefer 
your  glaciers  in  that  mitigated  condition.  And  if  you  went 
there,  you  might  manage  to  combine  business  with  pleasure, 
you  see,  by  giving  lessons  to  the  miserable  remnants  of  the 
Nice  season.  Lots  of  the  families  must  have  little  girls  :  lots 
of  the  little  girls  nmst  be  pining  for  instruction :  lots  of  the 
mammas  must  be  eager  to  laid  suitable  companionship;  and  a 
Girton  graduate's  the  very  person  to  supply  them  all  with  just 
what  they  want  in  the  finest  perfection.  We'll  look  the  matter 
up,  Elsie.    1  spy  an  opening." 

"  Will  your  brother  come  her^-  next  winter,  Edie?" 

"  I  know  no  cause  or  impedimt,?it  why  he  shouldn't,  my  dear. 
He  usually  does  one  winter  with  another.  It's  a  way  he  lias,  to 
follow  his  fiunily.  He  takes  his  pleasure  out  in  the  exercise  of 
the  domostic  affections. — But  why  do  you  ask  mcV" 


w^ 


i-Ul 


'  '  If 


I  I 


.  f 


172 


THIS  MORTAL  COIL. 


i 


^ 


"Because" — and  Elsie  hesitated  for  a  moment— "I  think — if 
he  does — 1  oughtn't  to  say  here." 

"  Nonsense,  my  dear,"  Edie  answered  promptly.  It  was  the 
best  way  to  treat  Klsie.  *'  You  needn't  bo  afraid.  I  know  what 
you  mean.  But  don't  distress  yourself:  men's  hearts  will  stand 
a  fearful  deal  of  breaking.  It  doesn't  hurt  them.  They're 
coarse  earthenware  to  our  egg-shell  porcelain.  He  must  just 
pine  away  with  unrequited  affection  in  his  own  wny  as  long  as 
he  likes.  Never  mind  Jiim.  It'll  do  him  good.  It's  yourself 
and  ourselves  you've  got  to  think  of.  He's  quite  happy  as  Icng 
as  he's  allowed  to  paint  his  own  unsaleable  pictures  in  peace 
and  quietness." 

"I  wish  ho  could  sell  thom,"  Elsie  went  on  reflectively.  "I 
really  do.  It's  a  shame  a  man  who  cijii  paint  so  beautifully 
and  so  poetically  as  he  does  should  iiave  to  wait  so  lon^;  and 
patiently  for  his  recognition.  He  strikes  too  high  a  note;  that's 
what's  the  matter.  And  yet  I  woukbi't  like  to  see  him  try  any 
lower  one.  I  didn't  understand  him  at  tirst,  myself;  and  I"m 
sure  I  find  as  much  in  nature  as  most  people. — But  you  want 
to  have  looked  at  things  for  some  time  together,  through  his 
pair  of  spectacles,  before  you  can  catch  them  exactly  as  he  does. 
The  eye  that  sees  is  half  the  vision." 

"My  dear,"  Edie  answered  in  her  cheery  way,  "  we'll  make 
him  succeed.  We'll  push  him  and  pull  him.  He'll  never  do  it 
if  he's  left  to  his  own  devices,  I'm  sure.  He's  too  utterly 
wrapped  up  in  his  work  itself  to  think  much  of  the  reception 
the  mere  vulgar  picture-buying  world  accords  it.  The  chink  of 
the  guinea  never  distracts  his  ear  from  higher  music.  But  I'm 
a  practical  person,  thank  heaven — a  woman  of  affairs — and  I 
mean  to  advertise  him.  They  ought  to  hang  him,  and  he  shall 
be  hung.  I'm  going  to  see  to  it.  I  shall  get  Mr.  Hatherley  to 
crack  him  up — Mr.  Hatlicrley  has  such  a  lot  of  influence,  yon 
know,  with  the  newspapers.  Let's  roll  the  log  with  cheerful 
persistence.  We  shall  iloat  him  yet ;  you  see  if  we  don't.  He 
shall  be  Warren  Helf,  E.A.,  with  a  tail  to  his  name,  before  you 
and  I  have  done  launching  liira," 

"I  hope  so,"  Elsie  niurmnred  with  a  quiet  sigh. 

If  Warren  Belf  could  have  heard  that  conversation,  he  might 
have  plucked  up  heart  of  grace  indeed  for  the  future.  When  a 
woman  begins  to  feel  a  living  interest  in  a  man's  career,  there's 
hope  for  him  yet  in  that  woman's  atl\)etion8.  Though,  to  bo 
sure,  Elsie  herself  would  have  been  shocketl  to  believe  it.  She 
cherished  her  sorrow  still  in  her  heart  of  hearts  as  her  dearest 
chattel,  her  most  sacred  possession.  8he  brought  incense  and 
tears  to  it  daily  with  pious  awe.  Woman-like,  she  loved  to  take 
it  out  of  its  s'.xine  and  cry  over  it  each  night  in  her  own  room 
alone,  as  a  religious  exercise.    She  was  faithiul  to  the  llugli 


THE  BALANCE  QUIVERS. 


173 


that  Imd  never  been,  though  the  Hngh  that  really  was  had 
proved  so  utterly  base  and  unworthy  of  lier.  For  that  first 
Hugh's  sake,  she  would  never  love  any  other  man.  She  could 
only  feel  for  Warren  Eelf  the  merest  sisterly  interest  and 
grateful  friendship. 

However,  we  must  be  practical,  come  what  may;  we  must  eat 
and  drink  though  our  hearts  ache.  ISo  it  was  arranged  at  last 
that  Elsie  should  retire  for  the  summer  to  the  cool  shades  of 
St.  Martin  Lantosqne;  while  the  Eelfs  returned  to  their  tiny 
house  at  128,  Bletchingley  Eoad,  London,  W.  A  few  pupils 
were  even  secured  by  hook  and  by  crook  for  the  off-season,  and 
a  home  provided  for  Elsie  with  an  American  family,  in  search 
of  culture  in  the  cheapest  maiket,  who  had  hired  a  villa  in  the 
patent  safety-valve,  to  avoid  the  ever  unpleasant  necessity  for 
returning  to  the  laud  of  their  birth,  across  the  stormy  millpond, 
for  the  hot  summer.  The  day  before  the  Eelfs  took  their 
departure  from  ban  Eemo,  Elsie  had  a  few  words  alone  With 
Warren  in  the  pretty  garden  of  the  Villa  L'ossa.  There  was  one 
thing  she  wanted  to  ask  him  ])articularly — a  special  fa\our,  yet 
a  very  delicate  one.  "Shall  you  be  down  about  the  coast  of 
Suffolk  much  this  year?"  she  asked  ^^'niidly.  And  "Warren 
}:athered  at  once  what  she  meant.  "  Yes,"  he  answered  in 
almost  as  hesitating  a  voice  as  her  own,  looking  down  at  the 
prickly-pears  and  green  lizards  by  his  feet,  and  keeping  his  eyes 
studiously  from  meeting  hers ;  "  I  <7hall  be  cruising  round,  no 
doubt,  at  Yarmouth  and  Whites trand,  and  Lowestoft  and 
Aldeburgh." 

She  noticed  how  ingeniously  he  had  mixed  them  all  up  to- 
gether in  a  single  list,  as  if  none  \iere  more  interesting  to  hi r 
niind  than  the  otiier;  and  she  added  in  an  almost  inaudible 
voice :  "  If  you  go  to  Whitestrand,  I  wish  very  much  you  would 
let  me  know  about  poor  dear  Winifred." 

"I  will  let  you  know," he  answered,  with  a  bound  of  his  heart, 
proud  even  to  be  entrusted  with  that  doubtful  commission. 
"  I'll  make  it  my  business  to  go  there  almost  at  once. — And  I 
may  write  and  tell  you  how  I  find  her,  mayn't  I  ?  " 

Elsie  drew  back,  a  little  frightened  at  his  request.  "Edio 
could  tell  me,  couldn't  she?  That  would  save  you  the  trouble," 
she  murmured  after  a  pause,  not  without  some  faint  under- 
current of  conscious  hypocrisy. 

His  face  fell.  He  was  disappointed  that  he  might  not  write 
to  her  himself  on  so  neutral  a  matter.  "As  you  will,"  he 
answered,  with  a  downcast  look.     "  Edie  shall  do  it,  then." 

Elsie's  heart  was  divided  within  her.  She  saw  her  reply  had 
hurt  and  distressed  him.  He  was  such  a  good  fellow,  and  ho 
would  be  so  pleased  to  write.  But  if  only  he  knew  how  hope- 
less it  was!  What  folly  to  encourage  him,  when  nothing  on 
12 


't 

i  .- 

I  III 

"l 

:  ■    ' 

n 

1 

1 

1 
J.I 

■  i 

m\ 


\i 


174 


THIS  MORTAL   COIL. 


earth  could  ever  come  of  it!  She  wished  she  knew  wliat  she 
ought  to  do  under  tliese  trying  circumstances.  Gratitude  would 
urge  her  to  say  "Yes.  of  course;  '  but  regard  for  his  own  happiness 
would  make  her  say  "No"  with  crushing  promptitude.  It  was 
bettor  he  should  understand  at  once,  without  appeal,  that  it  was 
quite  impossible — a  dream  of  the  wildest.  She  glanced  at  hitn 
shyly  and  caught  his  eye ;  she  fancied  it  was  just  a  trifle  dimmed. 
She  was  so  sorry  for  him.  "  Very  well,  Mr.  Eolf,"  she  mur- 
mured, relenting  and  taking  his  hand  for  a  moment  to  say 
good-bye.  "You  can  write  yourself,  if  it's  not  too  much 
trouble." 

Warren's  heart  gave  a  great  jump.  "  Thank  you,"  he  said, 
wringing  her  hand,  oh,  so  hard!  "You  are  very  kind. — Good- 
bye, Miss  Challoner."  And  he  raised  his  hat  and  departed  all 
tremulous.  He  went  down  that  afternoon  to  the  Mud-Turtle  in 
the  harbour  the  happiest  man  alive  in  the  whole  of  Sau  Ecmo. 


CHAPTEE  XXV. 


•  « 


CLOUDS   ON  THE   HORIZON. 

The  Massingcrs  pitched  their  tent  at  Whitcstrand  again  for 
August.  Hugh  did  his  best  indeed  to  put  off  the  evil  day;  but 
if  you  sell  your  soul  for  gold,  you  must  take  the  gold  with  all 
its  encumbrances ;  and  Winifred's  will  was  a  small  encumbrance 
that  Hugh  had  never  for  one  moment  reckoned  upon  in  his 
ante-nuptial  calculations  of  advantages  and  drawbacks.  Ho 
took  it  for  granted  he  was  marrying  a  mere  girl,  whom  he  could 
mould  and  fashion  to  his  own  whim  and  fancy.  That  simple, 
childish,  blushing  little  thing  had  a  will  of  her  own,  howevei* — 
ay,  more,  plenty  of  it.  When  Hugh  proposed  with  an  insinu- 
ating smile  that  they  should  run  down  for  the  summer  to 
Barmouth  or  Aberystwith — ho  loved  North  Wales — Winifred 
replied  with  quiet  dignity :  "  Wales  is  stuffy.  There's  nothing 
BO  bracing  as  the  east  coast.  After  a  London  season,  one  needs 
bracing.  I  feel  pulled  down.  We'll  go  and  stop  with  mamma 
at  Whitestrand."  And  she  shut  her  little  mouth  upon  it  with 
a  snap  like  a  rat-trap.  Against  that  solid  rock  of  sheer  resolu- 
tion, Hugh  shattered  himself  to  no  purpose  in  showery  spray  of 
rhetoric  and  reasoning.  Gibraltar  is  not  more  disdainful  of  the 
loam  that  dashes  upon  its  eternal  cliffs  year  after  year  than 
Winifred  was  to  her  husband's  running  tire  of  argument  and 
expostulation.  She  r'^ver  deigned  to  argue  in  return;  she 
merely  repeated  with  naked  iteration  ten  thousand  tiiues  over 
the  categorical  formula,  "  We'll  go  to  Whitestrand." 


tiUi 


CLOUDS  ON  TEE  HORIZON. 


175 


And  to  Whitestrand  llicj  went  in  due  time.  The  plastio 
male  character  can  no  more  resist  the  c  ascless  pressure  of 
feminine  persistence  tlian  clay  can  resist  the  hands  of  the  potter, 
or  wood  the  weening  effect  of  heat  and  uryiiess,  Hngh  took  his 
way  obediently  to  dull  flat  Suffolk  wlteu  August  came,  and 
relinquished  with  a  sigh  his  dreams  of  delicious  picnics  by  the 
Dolgelly  waterfalls,  and  hi*  "^^ntal  picture  of  those  phenomen- 
ally big  trout — three  pour  {,piece,  fisherman's  weight — that 
lurk  uncauglit  in  the  deep  green  pools  among  the  rocks  and 
stickles  of  the  plasliing  Wnion.  The  Bard  had  sold  himself  for 
prompt  cash  to  the  first  bidder :  he  found  when  it  was  too  late 
he  had  sold  himself  unknown  into  a  mitigated  form  of  marital 
slavery.  The  purchaser  made  her  own  terms:  Hugh  vas  com- 
pelled meekly  to  accept  them. 

Two  strong  wills  were  clashing  together.  In  serious  matters, 
neither  would  yield.    Each  must  dint  and  batter  the  other. 

They  did  not  occupy  Elsie's  room  this  time.  Hugh  had  stipu- 
lated with  all  his  might  for  that  concession  beforehand.  He 
would  never  pass  a  night  in  that  room  again,  he  said :  the  paint 
or  the  woodwork  or  the  chairs  or  something  made  him  hope- 
lessly sleepless.  In  these  old  houses,  sanitary  arrangements 
were  always  bad.  Winifred  darted  a  piercing  look  at  him  as 
he  shuffleil  uneasily  over  that  lame  excuse.  Already  a  vague 
idea  was  framing  itself  piecemeal  in  her  woman's  mind — a  very 
natural  idea,  wh(!n  she  saw  him  so  moody  and  preoccupied  and 
splenetic— that  Hugh  had  been  really  in  love  with  Elsie,  and 
was  in  love  with  Elsie  still,  even  now  that  Elsie  was  away  in 
Australia — else  why  this  unconquerable  and  absurd  objection 
to  Elsie's  room?  Did  he  think  he  had  deceived  and  ill-treated 
Elsie? 

A  woman's  mind  goes  straight  to  the  bull's-eye.  No  use  pre- 
tending to  mislead  her  with  side-issues;  she  flings  them  aside 
with  a  contemptuous  smile,  and  proceeds  at  once  to  worm  her 
way  to  the  kernel  of  the  matter. 

August  wore  away,  and  September  came  in ;  and  Hugh  con- 
tinued to  mope  and  to  bore  himself  to  his  heart's  content  at  that 
detestable  Whitestrand.  To  distract  his  soul,  he  worked  hard 
at  his  "Ode  to  Manetho;"  but  even  Miuietlio,  audacious  tliome, 
gave  him  scanty  consolation.  Nay,  his  quaint  "  Legend  of  Fee- 
Fa  w-Fum,"  that  witty  apologue,  with  its  grimly  humorous 
catalogue  of  all  possible  nightly  fears,  supplied  him  with  food 
but  for  one  solitary  morning's  meditation.  You  can't  cast  out 
your  blue-devils  by  poking  fun  at  them;  those  cerulean  demons 
will  not  be  laughed  down  or  rudely  exorcised  by  such  simple 
means.  They  recur  in  spite  of  you  with  profound  regularity. 
The  fons  ct  origo  maU  was  still  present.  That  hateful  poplar 
still  fronted  his  eyes  wherever  ho  moved :  tliat  window  with  tho 


I'-i 
4 


176 


THIS  MORTAL   COIL, 


% 


wistaria  still  haunted  his  sight  whenever  he  triod  io  lounge  at 
his  ease  on  the  lawn  or  in  the  garden.  The  rivor,  the  sand- 
hills, the  meadows,  the  walks,  all,  all  were  poisoned  io  him:  all 
spoke  of  Elsie.  Was  ever  Nemesis  more  hideous  or  more  com- 
plete? Was  ever  punishment  more  omnipresent?  He  had 
gained  all  he  wished,  and  lost  his  own  soul;  at  every  turn  of  his 
own  estate  some  liorrible  memento  of  his  shame  and  his  guilt 
rose  up  to  confuse  him.  He  wished  he  was  dead  every  day  ho 
lived :  dead,  and  asleep  in  his  grave,  beside  Elsie. 

As  that  dreaded  anniversary,  the  seventeenth  of  September, 
slowly  approaclied — the  annivert^ary,  as  Hugh  felt  it,  of  Elsie's 
murder — his  agitation  and  his  gloom  increased  visibly.  Wini- 
fred wondered  silently  to  herself  what  on  earth  could  ail  him. 
During  the  last  few  weeks,  ho  seemed  to  have  become  another 
man.  An  atmospliere  of  horror  and  doubt  surrounded  him. 
On  the  fifteenth,  two  days  before  the  date  of  Elsie's  disappear- 
ance, she  went  up  hastily  to  their  common  room.  The  door 
was  half-locked,  but  not  securely  fastened:  it  yielded  to  a 
sudden  jerk  of  her  wrist,  and  she  entered  abruptly — to  find 
Hugh,  with  a  guilty  red  face,  pushing  away  a  small  bundle  of 
letters  and  a  trinket  of  some  kind  into  a  tiny  cabinet  which  lie 
always  mysteriously  carried  about  with  him.  She  had  hardly 
time  to  catch  them  distinctly,  but  the  trinket  looked  like  a 
watch  or  a  locket.  The  letters,  too,  she  managed  to  note,  were 
tied  together  with  an  elastic  band,  and  numbered  in  clear  red 
ink  on  the  enveloj)es.  More  than  that  she  had  no  chance  to  see. 
But  her  feminine  curiosity  was  strongly  excited;  the  more  so  as 
Hugh  banged  down  the  lid  on  its  spring-lock  with  guilty  haste, 
and  proceeded  with  hot  and  fiery  fingers  to  turn  the  key  upon 
the  whole  set  in  his  own  portmanteau. 

"  Hugh,"  she  cried,  standing  still  to  gaze  upon  him,  "  what  do 
you  keep  in  that  little  cabinet  ?  " 

Hugh  turned  upon  her  as  she  had  nevur  before  seen  him  turn. 
No  longer  clay  in  the  hands  of  the  potter,  lie  stood  stiff  and 
hard  like  adamant  then.  "If  I  had  meant  you  to  know,"  ho 
said  coldly,  "I  would  have  told  you  long  ago.  I  did  not  tell 
you,  therefore  I  do  not  mean  you  to  know.  Ask  me  no  questions. 
This  incident  is  now  closed.  Say  nothing  more  about  it."  And 
he  turned  on  his  heel,  and  left  her  astonisliod. 

That  was  all.  \\  inifred  cried  the  night  through,  but  Hugh 
remained  still  absolute  adamant.  Next  morning,  she  altered 
her  tactics  completely,  and  drying  her  eyes  once  for  all,  said 
never  another  word  on  tlie  subject.  She  even  pret.mded  to  bo 
cheerful  and  careless.  When  a  woman  pretends  to  be  cheerful 
and  careless  after  a  domestic  scene,  the  luckless  man  whose 
destiny  she  holds  in  the  hollow  of  her  hand  may  well  tremble, 
especially  if  ti:r^re  is  something  he  wants  to  conceal  from  her. 


CLOUDS   ON  THE  HORIZON, 


177 


She  moans  to  egp:  it  all  out,  and  ep^pjed  out  it  will  all  be,  ns 
certainly  as  the  sun  will  rise  to-jnorrow.  It  may  take  a  long 
time,  but  it  will  come  for  all  that.  A  woman  on  the  track  of  a 
secret,  pretending  carelessness  is  a  dangerous  animal.  She  will 
go  far.     Hanc  tu,  Eomane,  cavdo. 

On  the  sixteenth,  Winifred  formed  a  little  plan  of  her  own, 
which  she  ventilated  with  childish  effusion  at  lunch-time. 
"Hugh,  dear,"  she  said  in  her  most  winning  voice,  "do  you 
happen  to  remember — if  you've  time  for  such  trifles— that  to- 
morrow's a  very  special  anniversary?" 

Hugh's  cheek  blanched  as  if  by  magic.  What  devilry  was 
this?  What  deliberate  cruelty?  For  the  moment  his  usual 
courage  and  presence  of  mind  forsook  him.  Had  Winifred, 
then,  found  out  everything? — A  special  anniversary,  indeed! 
As  if  he  could  forget  it :-  And  that  she,  for  whose  sake—with 
the  manor  of  Whitestrand  thrown  in — he  had  done  it  all  and 
made  himself  next  door  to  a  murderer — that  she,  of  all  people 
in  the  world,  shoiild  cast  it  in  his  teeth,  and  make  bitter  game 
of  him  about  Elsie's  death !  "  Well,  Winifred,"  he  answered  in 
a  stranf.e  low  voice,  looking  hard  at  her  eyes :  " I  suppose  I'm 
not  likely  to  forgot  it,  am  I  ?  " 

WinifVed  noted  the  tone,  silently.  Aloud,  she  gave  no  token 
iu  any  "Ni^ay  of  having  observed  his  singular  manner.—*'  It's  a 
year  to-morrow  since  Hugh  proposed  to  me,  you  know,  mamn)a 
dear,"  she  went  on,  in  her  quietest  and  most  cutting  voice, 
turning  round  to  her  mother,  "  and  he  does  me  the  honour  to 
say  politely  he  isn't  likely  to  forget  the  occasion. — For  a  whole 
year,  he's  actually  romumbered  it.  But  it  seems  to  make  him 
terribly  grumpy. — Never  mind,  Hugh  ;  I'll  let  you  off.  I'm  a 
sweet  little  angel,  and  I'm  not  going  to  be  angry  with  my  great 
bear :  so  there,  Mr.  Constellation,  you  see  I've  forgiven  you. — 
Now,  what  I  was  going  to  say's  just  this.  As  to-morrow's  a 
special  anniversary  in  our  lives,  I  propose  we  should  celebrate  it 
with  Ite^'oming  dignity." 

"Which  means,  I  suppose,  the  ordinary  British  symbol  of 
merry-making,  a  plum-])U(lding  for  dinner,"  Hugh  interposed 
bitterly.  He  saw  liis  mistake  with  perfect  clearness  now,  but 
he  hadn't  the  tact  or  the  grace  to  conceal  it,  with  a  woman's 
cleverness,  under  a  show  of  good-humour. 

"A  plum- pudding  is  hand"  Winifred  answered  with  a  smile 
— "distinctly  ?>'(?ia?.  I'm  surprised  a  member  of  the  Cheyno 
Piow  set  should  even  dream  of  sugposting  it.  What  would  Mr. 
llatherley  say  if  he  heard  the  Immortal  One  make  such  a  pro- 
])()sition?  lie'd  detect  in  it  the  strong  savour  ot  Philistia;  he'd 
declare  you'd  joined  the  hosts  of  Goliatli. — No.  It  isn't  a  plum- 
y)udding.  My  idea's  tliis.  Why  shouldn't  we  go  for  a  family 
picnic,  just  our  three  selves,  iu  honour  of  the  occasion  ?  " 


1 

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178 


THIS  MORTAL   COIL. 


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1- 


"A  picnic!"  Hnuh  cried,  nghnst — "a  picnic  to-morrow! — 
On  the  PGveiitcenth  !" — Then  recollecting  himself  once  more,  he 
added  ha'^tily  :  "In  this  unsettled  weather!  The  sandhills  are 
soaked.  There  isn't  a  place  on  the  whole  estate  one  could  arrange 
to  scut  one's  self  down  on  comfortably." 

"  I  hadn't  thought  of  the  sandhills,"  Winifred  answered  with 
qniet  dignity.  "  1  thought  it'd  be  awfully  nice  if  we  all  bespoke 
a  dry  scat  in  IMr.  Pelf's  yawl " 

"  Tielf's  yawl  1 "  Hugh  cried  aloud,  with  increasing  excitement. 
"  You  don't  mean  to  say  that  creature's  here  again  1 " 

*'  That  creature,  I'm  in  a  position  to  state  without  reserve," 
Winifred  answered  chillily,  "ran  up  the  river  to  the  Fisherman's 
llest  late  last  night,  as  lively  as  ever.  I  saw  the  Mnd-Tarth 
come  in  myself,  before  a  chipping  breeze !  And  Mrs.  Stannaway 
told  me  tliis  mornhig  Mr.  Keif  was  a-lying  off  the  hard,  just 
opposite  Stanna way's.  So  I  thought  it'd  be  a  capital  plan,  in 
memory  of  old  times,  if  we  got  Mr.  Rclf  to  take  us  down  in  the 
yawl  to  Orfordness,  land  us  comfortably  at  the  ].ow  Light,  and 
let  us  picnic  on  the  nice  dry  ridge  of  big  shingle  just  above  the 
graveyard  where  they  bury  the  wretched  sailors." 

Hugh's  whole  soul  was  on  fire  within  him  ,•  but  his  face  was 
pale,  and  his  hands  deadly  cold.  Was  this  pure  accident,  mere 
coincidence,  or  was  it  designed  and  deliberate  torture  on 
Winifred's  part,  he  wondered?  To  picnic  in  sight  of  Elsie's 
nameless  grave,  on  the  very  anniversary  of  Elsie's  death,  with 
every  concomitant  of  pretended  rejoicing  tliat  could  make  that 
ghastly  act  more  ghastly  still  than  it  would  otherwise  be  in  its 
own  mere  naked  brutality!  It  was  too  sickening  to  think  upon. 
But  did  Winifred  know?  Could  Winiftcl  mean  it  as  a  punish- 
ment for  his  silence?  Or  had  she  merely  blundered  upon  that 
horrible  proposition  as  a  sheer  coincidence  out  of  pure 
accident  ? 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  last  solution  was  the  true  and  simple 
one.  The  sa)ulhills,  or  Orfordness,  were  the  two  recognized 
alternative  picnicking  places  where  all  Wliitestrand  invariably 
tlisported  itself.  If  you  didn't  go  to  the  one,  you  went  as  a 
niatter  of  course  to  tiie  other.  There  was  no  third  way  open  to 
the  most  deliberate  and  statesmanlike  of  mortals.  The  Meyseys 
had  gone  to  Orfordness  for  years.  Why  not  go  there  on  tlie 
anniversary  of  Winnie's  engagement?  To  Winifred,  the  propositi 
seemed  simplicity  itself ;  to  Hugh,  it  seemed  like  a  strangely 
perverse  and  cunning  piece  of  sheer  feminine  cruelty. 

"  'J'here's  nothing  to  see  at  Orfordness,"  he  said  shortly — 
"nothing  but  a  great  bare  bank  of  sand  and  shingle,  and  a 
couple  of  lighthouses,  standing  alone  in  a  perfect  desert  of 
de-olation. — Besides,  the  weather's  just  beastly. — Much  better 
stop  at  home  as  usual  by  ourselves,  and  eat  our  dinner  here 


CLOUD 8  ON  THE  HORIZON. 


179 


in  peaco  and  quietness !     This  isn't  the  sort  of  season  for 
picnicking." 

"Oh!  but  Hugh,"  Mrs.  Meypcy  put  in,  with  her  maternal 
authority,  "  you  know  we  always  go  to  Orforchiess.  It's  really 
quite  a  charming  place  in  its  way.  The  sands  are  so  broad  and 
liard  and  romantic.  We  sail  dosvn,  and  picnic  at  the  lighthouse ; 
and  then  we  get  a  mfin  to  row  us  across  the  river  at  the  back  to 
Orford  Castle — there's  a  splendid  view  from  Orford  Castle — and  • 
altogether  it  makes  a  delightful  excursion,  of  its  kind,  for 
Suffolk.  We  ought  to  do  something  to  commemorate  the  day. — 
If  we  weren't  in  such  deep  mourning  still " — and  Mrs.  Meysey 
glanced  down  with  a  conventional  sigh  at  her  crape  excrescences 
— "  we'd  ask  a  few  friends  in  to  dinner  ;  but  I'm  afraid  it's  a 
little  too  soon  for  that.  Still,  at  any  rate,  there  could  be  no  harm 
— not  the  slightest  harm — in  our  just  running  down  to  Orford- 
ness  for  a  family  picnic.  It's  precisely  the  same  as  lunching  at 
home  here  together." 

"Do  you  remember,  Hugh,"  Winifred  went  on,  musingly, 
putting  the  screw  on,  "how  we  walked  out  that  morning,  a  year 
ago,  by  the  water-side ;  and  how  you  picked  a  bit  of  forget-me- 
not  and  meadow-sweet  from  the  bank  and  gave  it  me ;  and  what 
pretty  verses  about  undying  love  you  repeated  as  you  gave  it  ? 
— And  in  the  evening,  mamma,  I  had  to  go  out  to  dinner,  all 
alone  with  you  and  poor  dear  papa,  to  Snade  vicarage!  I 
recollect  how  angry  and  annoyed  I  was  because  I  had  to  go  out 
and  leave  Hugh  that  particular  evening!  and  because  I'd 
worn  that  same  dinner  dress  at  Snade  vicarage  three  parties 
running ! " 

"  Yes,"  Mrs.  Meysey  continued,  with  another  deep-drawn 
sigh;  "and  what  a  night  that  was,  to  be  sure!  So  fnll  of 
surprises;  It  was  the  night,  you  know,  when  poor  Elsie 
Clialloner  ran  away  from  us.  Yon  got  engaged  to  Hugh  in  tho 
morning,  and  in  the  evening  Elsie  disappeared  as  if  by  magic  I 
Such  a  coincidence!  Poor  dear  Elsie!  Not  a  year  ai-o!  A 
year,  to-morrow ! " 

"  No,  mother  dear.  That  was  tho  eighteenth.  I  was  engaged 
on  the  Wednesday,  you  recollect,  and  it  was  the  Thursday  wlieu 
we  found  out  Elsie  liad  gone  away  from  us." 

"  Thursday,  tlie  eighteenth,  when  wo  found  it  out,  dear,"  Mrs. 
Meysey  repeated  in  a  decisive  voice  (tho  maternal  mind  is  strong 
on  dates)  ;  "  but  Wednesday,  the  seventeenth,  late  in  the  evening, 
of  course,  when  she  went  away  from  us. — Poor  dear  Elsie !  I 
wonder  what's  become  of  her !  It's  curious  she  doesn't  write  to 
you  oftener,  Winifrtd." 

Were  they  working  upon  his  feelings,  of  malice  prepense  f 
Were  tliey  trying  to  make  him  blurt  out  tlie  truth  V  he  wondered. 
Hugh  Massiuger  in  his  agony  could  stand  it  no  longer.     Ho 


m 


11 

m 


.  i' 


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:; 


180 


Tina  MORTAL   COIL. 


roso  from  tho  table  and  wont  over  to  tlie  window.  There,  tlio 
poplar  stared  him  straight  in 'the  fuco.  He  turned  around  and 
looked  hard  at  Winifred.  Her  expressionless  blue  eyes  were 
placid  as  usual.  "Then,  if  it's  fine*,"  she  said,  in  an  insipid 
voice,  "we'll  ask  Mr.  llelf  to  give  us  a  lift  down  to  Orfordnesa 
to-morrow  in  the  Mud-Tartte" 

•'  No ! "  Hugh  thundered  in  an  ancry  tone.  "  However  you 
go,  Relf  shan't  take  you.  I  don't  want  to  see  any  more  of  Eelf. 
i  dislike  Eelf;  1  object  to  Keif.  He's  a  moan  cur!  1  won't  go 
anywhere  with  Eelf  in  future." 

"  But,  chiluren,  you  should  never  let  your  angry  passions  rise," 
Winifred  murmured  provoldngly.  " '  Your  little  hands  were  never 
mi^ant  to  tear  each  other's  eyes.'  If  he  doesn't  want  to  go  in  Mr. 
lielf's  boat,  he  shan't  bo  made  to,  then,  poor  little  fellow.  Ho 
shall  do  exactly  as  he  likes  himself.  He  shall  have  another  boat 
all  of  his  own.  I'll  order  one  this  evening  for  him  at  Martin's 
or  at  Stannaway's." 

'  If  it's  tine,"  Mrs.  Meysey  interposed  parenthetically. 

"  If  it's  tine,  of  course,"  Winifred  answered,  rising.  "  Wo 
don't  want  to  picnic  in  a  torrent  of  rnin. — Whatever  else  we  may 
be,  we're  rational  animals. — lint  how  do  you  know,  Hugh, 
Avhat  Orfordness  is  like?  You  can't  tell.  You've  never  been 
there." 

"  1  went  there  once  alone  last  year,"  Hugh  answered  sulkily; 
"and  I  saw  enough  of  the  beastly  hole  then  to  know  very  well  I 
don't  desire  its  further  acquaintance." 

"  But  you  never  told  me  you'd  been  over  there. " 

Hugh  managed  to  summon  up  a  sardonic  smile.  "I  wasn't 
married  to  you  then,  Winnie,"  he  answered,  with  a  savage  snarl, 
that  showed  his  ijrojecting  canines  with  most  unpleasant 
distinctness.  "  My  goings-out  and  my  comings-iu  were  not  yet 
a  matter  of  daily  domestic  inquisition.  I  hadn't  to  report 
myself  every  time  I  came  or  went,  like  a  soldier  in  barracks  to 
his  commanding  officer. — I  went  to  Orfordness  one  day  for  a 
walk — by  myself — unbidden — for  my  own  amusement." 

All  that  afternoon  and  late  into  the  evening,  Hugh  watclied 
the  clouds  and  the  barometer  eagerly.  His  fate  that  day  hung 
upon  a  spider's  web.  If  it  rained  to-morrow,  all  might  yet  bo 
well ;  if  not,  ho  felt  in  his  own  soul  they  stood  within  measurable 
distance  of  a  domestic  cataclysm.  He  would  not  go  to  Orford- 
ness with  Winifred.  He  could  not  go  to  Orfordness  with 
Winifred.  That  much  was  certain.  Ho  could  not  picnic,  on 
the  anniversary  of  Elsie's  death,  within  sight  of  Elsie's  nameless 
grave,  in  company  with  those  two  strange  women — his  wife  and 
his  mother-in-law.  Ugh !  how  he  hated  the  bare  idea !  If  it 
cumc  to  the  worst— if  it  was  fine  to-morrow— he  must  cither 


I    I 


CLOUDS   ON  THE   TJOniZON. 


m 


break  for  ever  with  Winifred— for  she  would  novrr  pivc  Jn — or 
else  he  must  fliu}?  himself  oft"  tlie  roots  of  the  ])oplar,  '.vjieio 
Elsie  had  flung  luii-self  off  that  day  twelve  months  ag(j,  and 
drown  as  she  had  drowned  atnontr  the  angry  breakers. 

There  would  he  a  certain  dramntio  ponipleteness  and  round- 
ness about  that  particular  fate  which  comnRiidcd  itself  tspocidlly 
to  Hugh  Massinpor's  poetical  nature  It  would  read  so  like  a 
Greek  tragedy — a  tale  of  Ate  and  Hubris  and  Nemesis.  Even 
from  the  point  of  view  of  the  outer  world,  who  knew  but  the 
husk,  it  would  seem  romantic  enough  to  drown  one's  self,  dis- 
consolate, on  the  very  anniversary  of  one's  first  engagement  to 
the  young  wife  one  meant  to  leave  an  untimely  widow.  But  to 
Hugh  ]Massinger  himself,  who  know  the  whole  kernel  and  core 
of  the  story,  it  would  be  infinitely  more  rotnantic  and  charming 
iu  its  way  to  drown  one's  self  off  tlie  SLlf-sanjo  poplar  on  tlio 
self-same  day  tliatElsie  had  drowned  lursclf.  Xo  bard  could  wish 
for  a  gloomier  or  more  appropriate  death.  Would  it  rain  or 
f-hine?  On  that  nlcnder  thread  of  doubt  his  whole  future  now 
hung  and  trembled. 

The  morning  of  the  seventeenth  dawned  at  last,  and  Hugh 
rose  early,  to  draw  aside  tlie  bedroom  blinds  for  a  moment.  A 
respite !  a  respite !  It  was  pouring  a  regular  English  downpour. 
There  was  no  h()]io — or  no  dang«.!r,  rather — of  a  picnic  to-day. 
Tliank  Heaven  for  that.  It  put  off  his  fate.  It  saved  hira  the 
inconvenience  and  worry  of  having  to  drown  himself  this 
particular  morning.  And  yet  the  denoiiemcnt  would  have  been 
so  strictly  dramatic  that  he  almost  regretted  a  shower  of  rain 
should  intervene  to  sjioil  it. 

At  ten  o'clock  he  started  out  alone  in  the  blinding  downpour 
and  took  the  train  as  far  as  Aldeburgh.  Thence  he  followed 
the  shingle  beach  to  Orfordness,  plodding  on,  as  he  had  done  a 
year  before,  over  the  loose  stones,  but  through  drenching  rain, 
instead  of  under  hot  and  blazing  sunlight.  When  he  reached 
the  lighthouse,  ho  sat  himself  down  in  pilgrim  guise  beside 
Elsie's  grave  in  the  steady  drip,  and  did  penance  once  more  by 
that  unknown  tomb  in  solemn  silence.  Not  even  the  lighthouse- 
man  came  oiit  this  time  to  gaze  at  him  in  wonder ;  it  poured 
too  hard  and  too  persistently  for  that.  He  sat  there  alone  for 
half  an  hour,  by  Elsie's  watch;  for  he  had  wound  it  that 
morning  with  reverent  hands,  and  brought  it  away  with  him  for 
that  very  purpose.  A  little  rusty,  perhap=«,  from  the  sea,  it 
would  keep  good  time  enough  still  for  all  he  needed.  At  the 
end  of  the  half-hour  he  rose  once  more,  plodded  back  again  over 
the  shingle  in  his  dripping  clothrs,  and  catch  ng  the  last  train 
home  to  Almundham,  reached  Whi.estrand  just  in  time  to  dress 
for  dinner. 

Winifred  was  waiting  for  him  at  the  front  deor,  while  with 


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182 


THIS  MORTAL   COIL. 


emotion-rnot  so  much  anger  as  slighted  afifection.  "Where 
have  you  Dcen  ?  "  she  asked,  in  a  cold  voice,  as  he  arrived  at  the 
porch,  a  dripping,  draggled,  wearied  pedestrian,  in  a  soaking 
suit  of  last  year's  tweeds. 

"  Didn't  I  say  well  I  was  bound  to  report  myself  to  ray  com- 
manding officer?"  Hngh  answered  tauntingly.  "All  right, 
then;  I  proceed  at  once  to  report  myself.  I  may  as  well  tell 
you  as  leave  you  to  worry.  I've  been  to  Orfordness — alone- 
tramped  it." 

"  To  Orfordness! "  his  wife  echoed  in  profound  astonishment. 
"You  didn't  want  to  go  with  us  there  if  it  was  fine.  Why, 
what  on  earth,  nugh,  did  you  ever  go  there  iu  this  pelting  rain 
for  ?  " 

"  Your  mother  recommended  it,"  Hugh  answered  sullenly, 
"  as  a  place  of  amusement.  She  said  it  was  altogether  a  most 
delightful  excursion.  She  praised  the  sands  as  firm  and 
romantic.  So  I  thought  I'd  try  it  on  her  recommendation.  I 
found  it  damp,  decidedly  damp. — Send  me  my  shoes,  please!'* 
And  that  was  all  the  explanation  he  ever  vouchsafed  her. 


1 1 '  ~ '.' 


<;h  \-n. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 


BErOUTING    PROGRESS. 


Warren  Eelf  spent  many  days  that  summer  at  V7hitestrand, 
cruising  vaguely  about  the  mouth  of  the  Char,  or  wandering 
and  sketching  among  the  salt-marsh  meadows;  but  he  never 
happened  to  come  face  to  face,  by  accident  or  design,  with  Hugli 
Massinger.  Fate  seemed  persistently  to  interpose  between 
them.  Once  or  twice,  indeed,  Winifred  said  with  some  slight 
asperity  to  her  husband,  "  Don't  you  think,  Hugh,  if  it  were  only 
for  old  acquaintance'  sake,  we  ougl't  t-;^  ask  that  creature  llelf 
some  day  to  dinner  ?  " 

But  Hugh,  who  was  yielding  enough  in  certain  matters,  was 
as  marble  here :  he  could  never  consent  to  receive  his  enemy,  of 
his  own  accord,  beneath  his  own  roof— for  Whitestrand,  after 
all,  was  his  own  in  reality.  "  No,"  he  growled  out,  looking  up 
from  his  paper  testily.  "  I  don't  like  the  fellow.  I've  heard 
things  about  him  that  make  me  sorry  I  ever  accepted  his  hosj^i- 
tality.  If  you  happen  to  meet  him,  "'Vinifred,  prowling  about 
the  i:)lace  and  trying  to  intercept  you,  I  forbid  you  to  speak  to 
him." 

"  You  forbid  me,  Hugh  ?  " 

"  Yes,"— coldly— "  I  forbid  you." 

Winifred  bit  her  lip,  and  was  discreetly  silent.    No  need  to 


!        ,    !^ 


HEFOBTING  PBOGBESS. 


188 


answer.  Those  two  proud  wills  were  beginning  already  to  clash 
more  ominously  one  against  the  other.  "  Very  well,"  the  young 
wife  thought  in  silence  to  herself ;  "  if  he  means  to  mew  me  up, 
seraglio  and  zenana  fnshion,  in  my  own  rooms,  he  should  hire 
a  guard  a  ad  some  Circassian  slaves,  and  present  me  with  a 
yashmak  to  cover  my  face  with." 

A  day  or  two  later,  as  she  strolled  on  some  errand  into  the 
placid  village,  she  came  suddenly  upon  Warren  Keif,  in  his 
rough  I'ersey  and  sailor  cap,  hanging  about  the  lane,  sketch- 
book in  hand,  not  without  some  vague  expectation,  as  Hugh  had 
suid,  of  accidentally  intercepting  her.  It  was  a  painful  duty, 
but  Elsie  had  laid  it  uptm  him ;  and  Elsie's  will  was  law  now. 
Naturally,  he  had  never  told  Elsie  about  the  meeting  with  Hugh 
at  the  Cheyne  Eow  Club.  If  he  had,  she  would  never  have  im- 
posed so  difficult,  delicate,  and  dangerous  a  task  upon  him. 
But  she  knew  nothing;  and  so  she  had  sent  him  on  this  painful 
errand, 

Winifred  smiled  a  frank  smile  of  recognition  as  she  came  up 
close  to  him.  The  painter  pulled  off  his  awkward  cap  awkwardly 
and  unskilfully. 

"  You  were  going  to  pass  me  by,  Mr.  Relf,"  she  said,  with  a 
good-humoured  nod.  "  You  won't  recognize  me  or  have  anything 
to  do  with  me,  perhaps,  now  I'm  married  and  done  for !  " 

The  words  gave  him  an  uncomfortable  thrill;  they  seemed  so 
ominous,  so  much  truer  than  she  thought  them. 

"  I  hardly  did  know  you,"  he  answered  with  a  forced  smile. 
"I've  not  been  accustomed  to  see  you  in  black  before,  Mr-s. 
Massinger. — And  to  say  the  truth,  when  I  come  to  look  at  you, 
you're  paler  and  thinner  than  when  I  last  met  you." 

Winifred  coughed^a  little  dry  cough.  W^omen  always  take 
sympathetic  remarks  about  their  ill  health  in  a  disparaging  sense 
to  their  personal  appearance.  "  A  London  season  1 "  she  answered, 
smiling ;  yet  even  her  smile  had  a  certain  unwonted  air  of  sad- 
ness aboui  it.  "Too  muny  of  Mrs.  Bouverie  Barton's  literary 
evenings  have  unhinged  me,  I  suppose.  My  small  brains  have 
been  over-stimulated. — You've  not  been  up  to  the  Hall  yet  to  see 
us,  Mr.  Relf.  I  saw  the  Mud-Turtle  come  ploughing  bravely  in 
some  three  or  four  days  ago,  and  I  wondered  you'd  never  looked 
up  old  friends. — For  of  course  you  know  I  owe  you  something : 
it  was  you  who  first  brought  dear  Hugh  to  Whitcstrand." 

How  Warren  ever  got  through  the  remainder  of  that  slippery 
interview,  gliding  with  diflioulty  over  the  thin  ice,  he  hardly 
knew.  He  walked  with  Winifred  to  the  end  of  the  lane,  talking 
in  vague  generalities  of  politeness ;  and  then,  with  some  lame 
excuse  of  the  state  of  the  tide,  he  took  a  brusque  and  hasty  leave 
of  her.  He  felt  himself  guilty  for  talking  to  her  at  all,  con- 
sidering the  terms  on  which  he  stood  with  her  husband.    But 


ii 


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184 


THIS  MORTAL  COIL. 


■I,' 


i  V 


Elsie's  will  overrode  everything.  When  he  wrote  to  Elsie,  that 
letter  he  had  looked  forward  to  so  long  and  eagerly,  it  was  with 
a  heavy  heart  and  an  accusing  conscience;  for  he  felt  somehow, 
from  the  forced  gaiety  of  Winifred's  ostentatiously  careless  man- 
ner, that  things  were  not  going  quite  so  smoothly  as  a  wedding- 
bell  at  the  Hall  already.  That  poor  young  wife  was  ill  at  ease. 
However,  for  Elsie's  sake,  he  would  make  the  best  of  it.  Wliy 
worry  and  trouble  poor  heart-broken  Elsie  more  than  absolutely 
needful  with  Winifred's  possible  or  actual  misfortunes  ? 

*'  I  didn't  meet  your  cousin  himself,"  he  wrote  with  a  very 
doubtful  hand — it  was  hard  to  have  even  to  refer  to  the  subject 
at  all  to  Elsie ;  "  but  I  came  across  Mrs.  Massinger  one  after- 
noon, strolling  in  the  lane,  with  her  pet  pug,  and  looking  very 
pretty  in  her  light  half-mourning,  though  a  trifle  paler  and 
thinner  than  I  had  yet  known  her.  She  attributes  her  paleness, 
however,  to  too  much  gaiety  during  the  London  season  and  to 
the  late  hours  of  our  Bohemian  society.  I  hope  a  few  weeks  at 
Whitestrand  will  set  her  fully  up  again,  and  that  when  I  have 
next  an  opportunity  of  meeting  her,  J  may  be  able  to  send  you 
a  good  report  of  her  health  and  hajipiness." 

How  meagre,  how  vapid,  how  jejune,  how  conventional!  Old 
Mrs.  Walpole  of  the  vicarage  herself  could  not  have  worded  it 
more  baldly  or  more  flabbily.  And  this  was  the  letter  he  had 
been  burning  to  write:  this  the  opportunity  he  had  been  so 
eagerly  awaiting !  What  a  note  to  send  to  his  divine  Elsie  1  Ho 
tore  it  up  and  wrote  it  again  half  a  dozen  times  over,  before  he 
was  finally  satisfied  to  accept  his  dissatisfaction  as  an  immutable, 
inevitable,  and  unconquerable  fact.  And  then,  he  compensated 
himself  by  writing  out  in  full,  for  his  own  mere  subjective  grati- 
fication, the  sort  of  letter  he  would  have  liked  to  write  her,  if 
circumstances  permitted  it — a  burning  letter  of  fervid  love, 
beginning,  "  My  own  darling,  darling  Elsie,"  and  ending,  with 
hearts  and  darts  and  tears  and  protestations,  "  Yours  ever  de- 
votedly and  lovingly,  Warren."  Which  done,  ho  burned  the 
second  genuine  letter  in  a  solemn  holocaust  with  a  lighted  fusee, 
and  sent  off  that  stilted  formal  note  to  "  Dear  Miss  Challoner," 
with  many  regrets  and  despondent  aspirations.  And  as  soon  as 
he  had  dropped  it  into  the  village  letter-box,  all  aglow  with 
shame,  the  Mud-Turtle  was  soon  under  way,  with  full  canvas 
set,  before  a  breathless  air,  on  her  voyage  once  more  to  Lowestoft. 

But  Winifred  never  mentioned  to  Hugh  that  she  had  met  and 
spoken  to  "  that  creature  Relf,"  with  whom  he  had  so  sternly 
and  authoritatively  forbidden  her  to  hold  any  sort  of  communi- 
cation. That  was  bad — a  beginning  of  evil.  The  first  great 
breach  was  surely  o]3ening  out  by  slow  degrees  between  them. 


A  week  later,  as  the  yawl  lay  idle  on  her  native  mud  in  Yar- 


REPORTING  PROGRESS. 


185 


moutli  liaibour,  Warron  Relf,  calling  at  the  post-oiBco  for  his 
expected  budget,  received  a  letter  with  a  French  stamp  on  it, 
and  a  postmark  bearing  the  magical  words, "  St.  Martin  Lan- 
tosque,  Alpes  Maritimes,"  which  made  Inn  quick  breath  come 
and  go  spasmodically.    He  tore  it  open  with  a  beating  heart. 

"  Dear  Mr.  Eelf  "  (it  said  simply), 

"  How  very  kind  of  you  to  take  the  trouble  of  going  to 
Whitestrand  and  sending  me  so  full  and  careful  an  account  of 
dear  Winifred.  Thank  you  ever  so  much  for  all  your  goodness. 
But  you  arc  always  kind.     I  have  learnt  to  expect  it. 

"  Yours  very  sincerely, 

"  Elsie  Chai.lonek." 

That  was  all  :  those  few  short  words ;  but  Warren  Eelf  lived 
on  that  brief  note  night  and  morning,  till  the  time  came  when 
he  might  return  once  more  in  liis  small  craft  to  the  South  and 
to  Elsie. 

When  he  did  return,  with  the  southward  tide  of  invalids  and 
swallows,  Elsie  had  left  the  first  poignancy  of  her  grief  a  year 
behind  her;  but  Warren  saw  quite  clearly  still,  with  a  sinking 
lieart,  that  she  was  true  as  ever  to  the  Hugh  that  was  not  anci 
that  never  had  been.  She  received  him  kindly,  like  a  friend  and 
a  brother;  but  her  manner  was  none  the  less  the  cold  fixed 
manner  of  a  woman  who  has  lived  her  life  out  to  the  bitter  end, 
and  whose  heart  has  been  broken  once  and  for  ever.  Whtn 
Warren  saw  her,  his  soul  despaired.  He  felt  it  was  cruel  even 
to  hope.  But  Edie,  most  cheerful  of  optimists,  laughed  him  to 
scorn.  "  If  I  were  a  man,"  she  cried  boldly,  and  then  broke  off. 
That  favourite  feminine  aposiopesis  is  tie  most  cutting  known 
form  of  criticism.  Warren  noted  it,  and  half  took  heart,  half 
desponded  again  more  utterly  than  ever. 

Still,  he  had  one  little  buttress  left  for  his  failing  hopes :  there 
was  no  denying  that  Elsie's  interest  in  his  art,  as  art,  increased 
daily.  She  let  him  give  her  lessons  in  water-colours  now,  and 
she  watched  his  own  patient  and  delicate  work  with  constant 
attention  and  constant  admiration,  among  the  rocks  and  bays  of 
the  inexhaustible  Eiviera.  During  that  second  sunny  winter  at 
San  liemo,  in  fact,  they  grew  for  the  first  time  to  know  one 
another.  Warren's  devotion  told  slowly,  for  no  woman  is  wholly 
proof  in  some  lost  corner  of  her  heart  against  a  man's  determined 
and  persistent  love.  She  could  not  love  him  in  return,  to  be 
sure :  oh  no ;  impossible :  all  that  was  over  long  ago,  for  ever : 
an  ingrained  sense  of  womanly  consistency  barred  the  way  to 
love  for  the  rest  of  the  ages.  But  she  liked  him  immensely;  she 
saw  his  strong  points ;  she  admired  his  earnestness,  his  goodness, 
his  singleness  of  purpose,  his  worship  of  his  art,  and  his  hopelcsa 


i    ; 
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■'hi 


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186 


THIS  MORTAL  COIL. 


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and  chivalrous  attachment  to  herself  into  the  havgain.  Its  very 
hopelessness  touched  her  profoundly.  Ho  could  never  expect 
her  to  return  his  love ;  of  that  she  was  sure ;  but  he  loved  her 
for  all  that ;  and  she  acknowledged  it  gratefully.  In  one  word, 
she  liked  him  as  much  as  it  is  possible  for  a  woman  to  like  a  man 
she  is  not  and  cannot  ever  be  in  love  with. 

"  Is  that  right  yet,  Miss  Challoner  ?  "  Warren  asked  one  day, 
with  a  glance  at  his  canvas,  as  he  sat  with  Edie  and  Elsie  on  the 
deck  of  the  Mud-Turtle,  painting  in  a  mass  of  hanging  ruddy- 
brown  seaweed,  whose  redness  of  tone  Elsie  thought  he  had 
somewhat  needlessly  exaggerated. 

"  Why  '  Miss  Challoner '  ?  "  Edie  asked  with  one  of  her  sudden 
arch  looks  at  her  brother.  "  We're  all  in  the  family,  now,  you 
know,  Warren.  Why  not  *  Elsie'?  She's  Elsie  of  course  to  all 
the  rest  of  us." 

Warren  glanced  into  the  depths  of  Elsie's  dark  eyes  with  an 
inquiring  look.    "  May  it  be,  Elsie?  "  he  asked,  all  tremors. 

She  looked  back  at  him,  frankly  and  openly.  "  Yes,  Warren, 
if  you  like,"  she  said  in  a  simple  straightforward  tone  that  dis- 
armed criticism.  The  answer,  in  fact,  half  displeased  him.  She 
granted  it  too  easily,  with  too  little  reserve.  He  would  have 
preferred  it  even  if  she  had  said  "  No,"  with  a  trifle  more  coy- 
ness, more  maidenly  timidity.  The  half  is  often  better  than  the 
whole.  Sho  assented  like  one  to  whom  assent  is  a  matter  of 
slight  importance.  He  had  leave  to  call  her  Elsie  in  too  brotherly 
a  fashion.  It  was  clear  the  permission  meant  nothing  to  her. 
And  to  him  it  might  have  meant  so  much,  so  much  1  He  bit  his 
lip,  and  answered  shyly,  "  Thank  you." 

l^die  noted  his  downcast  look  and  his  suppressed  sigh.  "  You 
goose!  "she  said  afterwards.  "Pray,  what  did  you  expect?  Do  you 
think  the  girl's  bound  to  jump  down  your  throat  like  a  ripe  goose- 
berry? If  she's  worth  winning,  she's  worth  waiting  for.  A  woman 
who  can  love  as  Elsie  has  loved  can't  be  expected  to  dance  a  polka 
at  ten  minutes'  notice  on  the  mortal  remains  of  her  dead  self.  But 
then,  a  woman  who  can  love  as  Elsie  has  loved  must  love  in  the 
end  a  man  worth  loving. — I  don't  say  I've  a  very  high  opinion  of 
y(ju  in  other  ways,  Warren.  As  a  man  of  business,  you're  simply 
nowhere ;  you  wouldn't  have  sold  those  three  pictures  in  London, 
you  know,  last  autumn  if  it  hadn't  been  for  your  amiable  sister's 
persistent  touting ;  but  as  a  marrying  man,  I  consider  your'e  Al, 
eighteen  carat,  a  perfect  hundred-guinea  prize  in  the  matrimonial 
market." 

Before  the  end  of  the  winter,  Elsie  and  Warren  found  they  had 
Fettled  down  into  a  quiet  broth-^rly  and  sisterly  relation,  which 
to  Elsie's  mind  left  nothing  further  to  be  desired;  while  to 
Warren  it  seemed  about  as  bad  an  arrangement  as  the  nature  of 
things  could  easily  have  permitted. 


REPORTING  PR0QRES3. 


187 


*'  It's  a  pity  lie  can't  sell  his  pictures  better,"  Elsie  said  one 
day  confidentially  to  Edie.  "Ho  does  so  deserve  it;  they're 
really  lovely.  Every  day  I  watch  liim,  1  find  new  points  in 
them.    I  begin  to  see  now  how  really  great  they  are." 

*'  It  is  a  pity,"  Edie  answered  mischievously.  "  lie  mnst 
devote  his  energies  to  the  harmless  necessary  i)ot-boiler.  For 
until  he  finds  his  market,  my  dear,  he'll  never  bo  well  enough 
olf  to  marry." 

"  Oh,  Edie,  I  couldn't  bear  to  think  he  should  sink  to  pot- 
boiling.  And  yet  I  should  like  to  see  him  married  some  day  to 
some  nice  good  girl  who'd  make  him  happy,"  Elsie  assented 
innocently. 

"  So  should  I,  my  child,"  Edie  rejoined  with  a  knowing  smile. 
"  And  what's  more,  1  mean  to  arrange  it  too.  I  mean  to  put 
him  in  a  proper  position  for  asking  the  nice  good  girl's  consent. 
Mext  summer  and  autumn,  I  shall  conspire  with  Mr.  Hatherlcy 
to  boom  him." 

"  To  what? "  Elsie  asked,  puzzled. 

"  To  boom  him,  my  dear.  B,  double  o,  m — boom  him.  A 
most  noble  verb,  imported,  I  believe,  with  the  pickled  pork  and 
the  tinned  peaches,  direct  from  Chicago.  To  boom  means, 
according  to  my  private  dictionary,  to  force  into  sudden  and 
almost  explosive  notoriety. — That's  what  I'm  going  to  do  with 
Warren.  I  intend,  by  straightforward  and  unblushing  adver- 
tising— in  short  by  log-rolling — to  make  him  go  down  next 
Feason  with  the  money-getting  classes  as  a  real  live  painter. 
Their  gold  shall  pour  itself  into  Warren's  pocket.  If  he  wasn'*; 
a  genius,  1  should  think  it  wrong ;  but  as  I  know  he  is  one,  why 
shouldn't  I  boom  him?  " 

"  Why  not,  indeed  ?  "  Elsie  answered  all  unconscious.  "  And 
then  he  might  marry  that  nice  good  girl  of  yours,  if  he  can  get 
her  to  take  him." 

"  The  nice  good  girl  will  have  to  take  him,"  Edie  replied  with 
a  nod.  "  When  I  puts  my  foot  down,  I  puts  it  down.  And  I've 
put  it  down  that  Warren  shall  succeed,  financially,  artistically, 
and  matrimonially.  So  there's  nothing  more  to  be  said  about  it." 

And  indeed  when  Warren  returned  to  England  in  the  spring, 
to  be  boomed,  it  was  with  distinct  permission  this  time  from 
Elsie  to  write  to  her  as  often  and  as  much  as  he  wanted — in 
a  strictly  fraternal  and  domestic  manner. 


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188 


TJllH  MORTAL  COIL, 


CHAPTER  XXVIL 


AUT  AT    HOME. 


"'■  11  ii 


That  Fame  winter  mndo  a  sud^^en  chanpjo  in  PTugli  Massinpror'o 
financial  position.     Ho  fonnd  liimsolf  the  actual  and  undoubted 
possessor  of  the  Manor  of  Wliitestrand.     Winter  always  tried 
Mrs.  Meyney.    Like  the  bulk  of  us  nowadays,  her  weak  points 
were  hingy.    Of  late,  she  had  suffered  each  season  more  and 
more  from  broiichitis,  and  Hugh  had  done  his  disinterested 
bust  to  persuaijo  her  to  go  abroad   to  some  warmer  climate. 
His  solicitude  for  her  health,  indeed,  was  truly  filial,  and  not 
without  reason.     If  she  chose  Madeira  or  Algiers  or  Egypt,  for 
example,  she  would  at  least  be  well  out  of  her  new  son's  way  for 
six  months  of  the  year;  and  Hugh  was  beginning  to  realize,  as 
time  went  on,  a  little  too  acutely  that  he  had  married  the  estate 
and  manor  of  Whitcsiraud  with  all  its  encumbrances,  a  mother- 
in-law  included;  while  if, on  the  other  hand,  she  preferred  Nice 
or  Cannes  or  Pan,  or  even  Florence,  or  any  nearer  continental 
resort,  they  would  at  any  rate  liave  an  agreeable  place  to  visit 
her  in,  if  they  were  suddenly  summoned  away  to  her  side  by  the 
telegraphic  calls  of  domestic  piety.     But  Mrs.  Meysey,  true 
metal  to  the  core,  wouldn't  hear  of  wintering  away  from  Suffolk. 
She  clung  to  VVhitestrand  with  East  Anglian  persistence.   Where 
was  one  butter  off,  indeed,  than  in  one's  own  house,  with  one's 
own  pe()i)le  to  tend  and  comfort  one  ?    If  the  Jlarch  winds  blew 
hard  at  the  Hall,  were  there  not  deadly  mistrals  at  Mentone  and 
gusts  of  foggy  Fohn  at  dreary  Davos  Platz  ?  If  you  gained  in  the 
daily  tale  of  registered  sunshine  at  Hyeres  or  at  Bordighera,  did 
not  a  superabundance  of  olive  oil  diversify  the  stew  at  the  tahle- 
d'hote,  and  a  fatal  suspicion  of  Italian  gaiiic  poison  i\\Qfrkan- 
deau  of  the  second  breakfast?    Mrs.  Meysey,  in  her  British 
mood,  would  stand  by  Suffolk  bravely  while  she  lived ;  and  if 
the  hard  gray  weather  killed  her  at  last,  as  it  killed  its  one 
literary  apologist  in  our  modern  England,  she  would  acquiesce 
in  the  decrees  of  Fate,  and  be  buried,  like  a  Briton,  by  her 
husband's  side  in  Whitestrand  churchyard.     Elizabethan  Mey- 
seys  of  the  elder  stock — in  frilled  ruffs  and  stiff  starched  head- 
dresses— smiled  down  upon  her  resolution  from  their  niched 
tomb  in  Whitestrand  church  every  Sunday  morning:  never 
should  it  be  said  that  this,  their  degenerate  latter-day  represen- 
tative, ran  away  from  the  east  winds  of  dear  old  England  to 
bask  in  the  sunlight  at  Malaga  or  Seville,  among  the  descendants 
of  the  godless  Armada  sailors,  from  whoso  wreckage  and  pillage 


AMT  AT  HOME. 


189 


ihom  stout  old  squiros  bad  built  up  the  timbers  of  that  very 
Hull  which  she  herseJf  Htill  worthily  inhabited. 

So  Mrs.  Meysey  stopped  sturdily  at  homo ;  and  the  east  wind 
wreaked  its  vengeance  ujion  her  in  its  wonted  fashion.  Early 
in  March,  Winifred  was  summoned  by  telegram  from  town: 
"  Come  at  once.  Much  worse.  May  not  live  long.  Bring  Hugh 
with  you."  And  three  weeks  later,  another  fresh  grave  rose 
eloquent  in  Whitestiand  churchyard ;  and  the  carved  and  painted 
Elizal^than  Meyseys,  smiling  placidly  as  ever  on  the  empty 
scat  in  the  pew  below,  looked  forward  with  confidence  to  the 
proximate  addition  of  another  white  marble  tablet  with  a  black 
epitaph  to  the  family  collection  in  the  Whitestraud  chancel. 

The  moment  was  a  specially  trying  one  for  Winifred.  A 
month  later,  a  little  heir  to  the  Whitestrand  estates  was  expected 
to  present  himself  on  the  theatre  of  existence.  When  he  actually 
arrived  upon  the  stage  of  life,  however,  poor  frail  little  waif,  it 
was  only  just  to  be  carried  across  it  once,  a  speechless  super- 
numerary, in  a  nurse's  arms,  and  to  breathe  his  small  soul  out  in 
a  single  gasp  before  he  had  even  learnt  how  to  cry  aloud  like  an 
English  baby.  This  final  misfortune,  coming  close  on  the  heels 
of  all  the  rest,  broke  down  poor  Winifred's  health  terribly.  A 
new  chapter  of  life  opened  out  before  her.  She  censed  to  be 
the  sprightly,  lively  girl  she  had  once  been.  She  felt  herself  left 
alone  in  the  big  wide  world,  with  a  husband  who,  as  she  was 
now  beginning  to  suspect,  had  married  her  for  the  sake  of  her 
money  only,  while  his  heart  was  still  fixed  upon  no  one  but 
Elsie.  Poor  lonely  child:  it  was  a  dismal  outlook  for  her. 
Her  soul  was  sad.  She  couldn't  bear  to  brazen  things  oat  any 
longer  in  London — to  praile  and  smile  and  be  inwardly  miserable. 
She  must  come  back  now,  she  said  plaintively,  to  her  own  people 
in  dear  old  Suffolk. 

To  Hugh,  this  proposition  was  simply  unendurable.  He 
shrank  from  Whitestrand  with  a  deadly  shrinking.  Every- 
thing about  the  estate  he  had  made  his  own  was  utterly  dis- 
tasteful to  him  and  fraught  with  horror.  The  house,  the 
grounds,  the  garden,  the  river,  above  all  that  tragic,  accusing 
poplar,  were  so  many  perpetual  reminders  of  his  crime  and  his 
punishment.  Yet  he  saw  it  would  be  useless  to  oppose  Wini- 
fred's wish  in  such  a  matter— the  whole  idea  was  so  simple,  so 
natural.  A  squire  ought  to  live  on  his  own  land,  of  course ;  he 
ought  to  occupy  the  ancestral  Hall  where  his  predecessors  have 
dwelt  before  him  for  generations.  Had  not  he  himself  fulmi- 
nated in  his  time  in  the  gorgeous  periods  of  the  Morning  Tele~ 
phone  against  the  crying  sin  and  shame  of  absenteeism?  But 
if  he  went  there,  he  could  only  go  on  three  conditions.  The 
Hall  itself  must  be  remodelled,  redecorated,  and  refurnished 
throughout,  till  its  own  inhabitants  would  hardly  recognize  it: 
13 


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100 


THIS  MORTAL  COIL, 


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il 


the  grounds  must  be  replanted  in  accordance  with  his  own 
cultivuted  and  refined  tunte :  and  last  of  all — though  this  he  did 
not  venture  to  mention  to  Winifred — by  fair  means  or  by  foul, 
the  Whitestrand  poplar — that  hateful  tree— nm.st  be  levelled  to 
the  soil,  and  its  very  place  must,  know  it  no  lonj?er.  For  the 
first  two  conditions  lie  stipulated  outright  :  the  third  he  locked 
up  for  the  present  quietly  in  the  secret  recesses  of  his  own 
bosom. 

Winifred,  for  her  part,  was  not  wholly  averse,  either,  to  the 
remodelling  of  Whitestrand.  The  house,  she  admitted,  was  old- 
fashioned  and  dowdy.  Its  antiquity  went  back  only  to  the  "  bad 
])eriod."  After  the  a3sthetic  drawing-rooms  of  the  Cheyne  Row 
set,  she  confessed  to  herself,  grudgingly— though  not  to  Hugh 
—  that  the  blue  satin  and  whitey-gold  })aint  of  the  dear  old 
place  seemed  perhaps  just  a  trille  dingy  and  antirpiated.  There 
were  liny  cottages  at  llampstead  and  Kensington  that  White- 
strand Hall  could  never  reasonably  expect  to  emulate.  Slie 
didn't  object  to  the  alterations,  she  said,  so  long  as  the  original 
Elizabethan  front  was  left  scrupulously  intact,  and  no  incon- 
gruous meddling  was  allowetl  with  the  oaken  wainscot  and 
carved  ceiling  of  the  Jacobean  vestibule.  But  where,  she  asked, 
with  sound  Suffolk  common-sense,  was  the  money  for  all  these 
improvements  to  ccmio  from?  A  season  of  falling  remits,  and 
encroaching  sea,  and  shifting  sands,  and  agricultural  depn  ssioii, 
with  Hcssiau  fly  threatening  the  crops,  and  obscure  bacteria 
fighting  among  themselves  for  possession  of  the  cattle,  was 
surely  not  the  best  chosen  time  in  the  world  for  a  country 
gentleman  to  enlarge  and  complete  and  beautify  his  house  in. 

"Pooh!"  Hugh  answerel,  in  one  of  his  heroically  sanguine 
moods,  as  he  sat  in  the  dining-room  with  his  back  to  the  window 
and  the  hated  poplar,  and  his  face  to  the  ground-plans  and 
estimates  upon  the  table  before  him.  "  I  mean  to  go  up  to 
town  for  the  season  always,  and  to  keep  ip  my  journalistic  con- 
nection in  a  general  way  ;  and  in  time,  no  doubt,  I  shall  begin 
to  get  work  at  the  bar  al»^o.  I  shall  make  friends  as^-iduously 
with  what  a  playful  phrase  absurdly  describes  as  *  tlie  lower 
branch  of  the  profession.'  I  shall  talk  my  nicest  to  every  dull 
solicitor  I  meet  anywhere,  and  do  my  politest  to  the  dull 
solicitor's  stupid  wife  ami  plain  daughters.  I'll  fetch  them  ices 
at  other  people's  At  Homes,  and  shower  on  them  tickets  for  all 
the  private  views  we  don't  care  about,  and  all  the  lirst  nights  at 
uninteresting  theatres.  Tiiat's  the  way  to  advance  in  the 
profession.  Sooner  or  later,  I'll  get  on  at  the  bar.  Meanwhile, 
as  the  estate's  fortunately  unencmnbered,  and  there's  none  of 
that  precious  nonsense  about  entail,  or  remviinders,  or  settle- 
ments, or  so  forth,  we  can  raise  the  immediate  cash  for  our 
present  need  on  short  mortgages." 


AliT  AT  JIOitlh\ 


191 


"I  ]mte  tlio  very  name  of  mortpa^es,"  "Winifred  cried  ini- 
patkiitly.  "Tlioy  Buggtist  brokers'  ii.cn  and  bailiffs,  aud 
bankruptcy  and  beggary." 

"  Ana  everything  else  that  begins  with  a  B/'Hugh  oontinned, 
BHiilitig  a  placid  nniilo  to  liimself,  and.  vaguely  remiiiiiscent  of 
"  AHce  in  Wonderland."  "  Why  with  a  B  ! "  Alice  said  musingly. 
— *'  Why  not?"  taid  the  March  Hare. — Alice  was  Jtilent. — "  Now, 
for  my  own  jmrt,  I  confess,  on  the  contrary,  Winifred,  to  a 
certain  Bontinicntal  liking  for  the  mortgage  as  such,  viewed  iu 
the  abstract.  It's  a  document  intimately  connected  with  the 
landed  interest  and  the  feudal  classes;  it  savours  to  my  mind 
of  broad  estates  and  haughty  aristocrats,  and  lordly  rent- rolls 
and  a  baronial  ancestry.  I  will  a(imit  that  I  should  feel  a 
peculiar  pride  in  my  connection  with  Whitestrand  if  I  felt  I  had 
got  it  really  with  a  mortgtige  on  it.  How  i>roud  a  moment,  to 
be  Hcised  of  a  inortg  ige !  The  poor,  the  abject,  the  lowly,  and  the 
liindlesa  don'  go  in  lieavily  for  the  luxury  of  mortgages.  They 
pawn  their  watches,  or  raise  a  precarious  shilling  or  two  upon 
the  temi  oraiy  security  of  Sunday  suits,  kitchen  clocks,  and 
6econd-l»and  liat-irons.  But  a  mortgage  is  an  eminently  gentle- 
manly forni  of  impecuniosity.  Like  gout  and  the  lord-lieuten- 
ancy of  your  shire,  it's  incidental  to  birth  and  greatues.s. — Upon 
my  word,  I'm  not  really  certain,  Winnie,  now  I  come  to  think 
upon  it,  that  a  gentleman's  house  is  ever  quite  complete  without 
a  History  of  England,  a  billiard  table,  and  a  mortgage.  Unen- 
cumbered estates  suggest  Brummagem :  they  bospeak  the  vulgar 
affluence  of  the' iwuvcaii  richa,  who  keeps  untold  gold  lying  idle 
at  his  bankers  on  purpose  to  spite  the  political  economists. 
But  a  loan  of  a  few  tliousands,  invested  with  all  the  glamour 
of  deposited  title-deeds,  foreclosing,  engrossed  parchment,  and 
an  extremely  beautiful  aud  elaborate  specimen  of  that  charming 
dialect,  conveyancers'  English,  carries  with  it  an  air  of  antique 
respectability  and  county  importance  that  I  should  be  loth  to 
forego  even  if  1  happened  to  have  the  cash  in  hand  otherwise 
available,  for  carrying  out  the  necessary  improvements." 

"  But  how  shall  we  ever  pay  it  back  ?  "  Winifred  asked,  with 
native  feminine  caution. 

Hugh  waved  his  hands  expansively  open.  When  he  went  in 
for  the  sanguine,  he  did  it  thoroughly.  "One  thing  at  a  time, 
my  child,"  he  murmured  low.  "  Eir.st  borrow ;  then  set  your 
wits  to  work  to  look  around  for  a  means  of  repayment. — In  the 
desk  at  home  in  London  this  very  moment  lies  an  immortal 
epic,  worth  ten  thousand  pounds  if  it's  worth  a  penny,  and 
cheap  at  the  price  to  a  discerning  purchaser.  Ormuz  and  Ind 
are  perfect  East  Ends  to  it.  It  teems  with  Golcondas  and  Big 
Bonanzas.  In  time  the  slow  world  must  surely  discover  that 
this  England  of  ours  still  encloses  a  great  live  poet.    The  blind 


!    i 

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A 


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102 


TII18  MORTAL   COIL. 


\y-   I 


and  battling  muRt  open  their  eyes  and  look  at  last  placidly 
about  them.  They'll  then  Ite  glad  to  buy  fifty  editions  of  that 
divine  strain,  varying  in  character  from  the  largo  paper  Edition 
de  luxe  in  antique  vellum  at  ten  guineas — five  hundred  num- 
bered copies  only  print(  d,  and  isHued  to  subscribers  upon  con- 
ditions which  may  bo  Jeaint  on  application  at  all  libraries— to 
the  school  selection  at  po))ular  prices,  intended  to  familiarize 
the  ingenuous  youth  of  this  natiim  with  the  choicest  thoughts  of 
a  distinguished  and  high-minded  living  author. — Winnie,  I'm 
tired  to  death  of  hearing  peo[)lo  say  when  I'm  introduced  to 
thein :  *  Oh,  Mr.  Massiiiger,  I've  often  wanted  to  ask,  are  you 
descended  from  i\w  poet  Massinger?'  I  mean  the  time  to 
arrive  before  long  when  I  can  answer  them  plainly  with  a  bold 
face :  *  No,  my  dear  sir,  or  madam,  I  am  not ;  but  I  am  the  poet 
Massinger,  if  you  care  to  bo  told  so.' — When  that  time  comes, 
we'll  pay  otf  the  mortgages  and  build  a  castle — in  Spain  or  else- 
where— with  the  balance  of  our  fortune.  Meanwhile,  we  have 
always  the  satisfaction  of  knowing  that  nothing  on  earth  could 
be  more  squireurchical  in  its  way  than  a  genuine  mortgage." 

"  I'm  not  so  snro  as  I  onc(  was,  Hugh,  that  you'll  ever  make 
much  out  of  your  kind  of  poetry." 

"  Of  course  not,  my  child ;  because  now  I  hapi)en  to  be  only 
your  husband.  A  prophet,  wo  know  on  the  best  authority,  is 
not  without  honour,  et  cajtera,  et  ca)tera.  But  I  mean  to  make 
my  mark  yet  for  all  that ;  ay,  and  to  make  money  out  of  it,  too, 
into  the  bargain." 

So,  in  the  end,  Winifred's  objections  were  over-ruled — since 
this  was  not  a  maiter  upon  which  that  young  lady  felt  strongly 
— and  the  money  for  "  imi)roving  and  developing  the  estate  " 
having  been  duly  raised  by  the  aid,  assistance,  instrumentality, 
or  mediation  of  that  fine  specimen  of  conveyancers'  English 
aforesaid,  to  which  Hugh  had  so  touchingly  and  professionally 
alluded,  a  fashionable  architect  was  invited  down  from  town  at 
once  to  inspect  the  Hull  and  to  draw  up  plans  for  its  renovation 
as  a  residential  mansion  of  the  most  modern  pattern. 

The  fashioLable  architect,  after  his  kind,  performed  his  work 
well — and  expensively.  lie  sjjared  himself  no  pains  (and  Hugh 
no  money)  on  rendering  the  Hall  a  perfect  example  on  a  small 
scale  of  the  best  Ji.lizabethan  domestic  architecture.  He  des- 
troyed ruthlessly  and  repaired  lavishly.  He  put  mullions  to  the 
windows,  and  pillars  to  the  porch,  and  moulded  ceilings  to  the 
cliief  reception-rooms,  and  oaken  balustrades  to  either  side  of 
tho  wide  old  rambling  Tudor  staircase.  He  rebuilt  whatever 
Inigo  had  defaced,  and  pulled  down  whatever  of  vile  and  shape- 
less Georgian  contractors  had  stolidly  added.  He  "  restored  " 
the  building  to  what  it  had  never  before  been :  a  tine  squat  old- 
fashioned  country  mansion  of  the  low  wind-swept  East  Anglian 


AliT  AT  HOME. 


103 


t\po,  a  HouKo  Poantiftil  everywhere,  without  and  within,  and  as 
unlike  ns  yKWHilolo  to  tlio  dingy  Hall  that  Hiigli  Massinger  lind 
Feen  and  mentally  disconntenaneed  on  the  occasion  of  his  firHt 
vifiit  to  Whitcfitrand.  '  You  pivo  an  architect  money  enough," 
Fays  Colonel  Silas  Lapham  in  the  greatest  romance — bar  one— 
in  the  English  laiiguiigo,  "and  he'll  Tniild  you  a  fine  house 
every  time."  Hugh  Massinger  gave  his  architect  money  enough, 
or  at  least  credit  enough — which  comes  nt  first  to  the  san^e 
thing— and  he  got  a  fine  house,  as  far  as  the  means  at  his  dis- 
posal went,  on  that  ugly  corner  of  flat  sandy  waste  at  forsaken 
Whitcstrand. 

When  tlie  building  was  done  and  the  papering  finished,  they 
pct  about  the  furnishing  proper.  And  Jiere,  Winifred's  taste 
began  to  clash  with  Hugh's ;  for  every  woman,  though  she  may 
eschew  ground-plans,  elevations,  and  estimates,  has  at  least 
distinct  ideas  of  her  own  on  the  important  question  of  internal 
♦lecoration.  The  new  Squire  was  all  for  oriental  hangings, 
Turkey  carpets,  Indian  durrces,  and  Persian  tiling.  But  Mrs. 
Massinger  would  have  none  of  these  heathenish  gewgaws,  she 
solemnly  declared;  her  tastes  by  no  means  took  a  Saracenic 
turn.  Mr.  Hatherloy  and  the  Cheyne  Piow  men  would  make 
fun  of  her,  ami  call  her  house  Lil)erty  Hall,  if  she  furnished  it 
throughout  with  such  Mussulman  absurdities.  For  her  own 
part,  she  renounced  Liberty  and  all  his  works:  she  eschewed 
everything  east  of  longitude  thirty  degrees :  inlaid  coffee-tables 
were  an  abomination  in  her  eyes;  pierced  Arabic  lamps  r<  used 
no  latent  enthusiasm:  the  only  real  thing  in  decoration  was 
Morris ;  and  on  Morris  she  pinned  her  faith  unreservedly.  She 
would  be  utterly  utter.  She  had  a  Morris  carpet  and  Morris 
cuitains ;  white  ivory  paint  adorned  her  lop-sided  overmantels, 
and  red  De  Morgan  ware  with  opalescent  hues  ranged  in  long 
straight  rows  upon  her  pigeon-hole  cabinets.  To  Hugli's 
poetical  mind  this  was  all  too  plaguy  modern ;  out  v "  keeping, 
he  thought,  with  the  wide  oaken  staircase  and  the  punctilious 
Klizabethanism  of  the  eminent  architect's  facade  and  ceilings. 
Winifred,  however,  laughed  his  marital  remonstrances  to  utter 
scorn.  She  hated  an  upholsterer's  house,  she  said,  all  furnished 
alike  from  end  to  end  with  servile  adherence  to  historical 
correctness.  Such  Puritanical  purism  was  meant  for  slaves. 
Why  pretend  to  be  living  in  Elizabethan  England  or  Louis 
Quinze  France,  when  we're  really  vegetating,  as  we  all  know, 
in  the  marshy  wilds  of  nineteenth-century  Suffolk  ?  Let  your 
house  reflect  your  own  eclecticism — a  very  good  phrase,  picked 
up  from  a  modern  hnndbook  of  domestic  decoration.  She 
liked  a  little  individuality  and  lawlessness  of  purpose.  "Your 
views,  you  know,  Hug  '  she  cri«d  with  the  ex  caihedrd 
conviction  of  a  v  )man  la^  ng  down  t  <»e  law  in  her  own  housQ- 


p 


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194 


77/75  MOllTAL   COIL. 


hold,  "  are  just  the  least  little  bit  in  the  world  pedantic.  You 
and  your  architect  want  a  stiflf  museum  of  Elizabethan  art.  1\ 
may  be  silly  of  me,  but  1  prefer  myself  a  house  to  live  in.'* 

" '  The  drawing-room  does  look  so  perfectly  lovely,'  you  re- 
member," Hugh  quoted  quietly  from  her  own  old  letters.  '"We've 
done  it  up  exactly  as  you  recommended,  with  the  sage-green 
plush  for  the  old  mantel-piece,  and  a  red  Japanese  ta*ile  in  the 
dark  corner;  and  I  really  think,  now  I  sue  the  effect,  your 
taste's  simply  exquisite.  But  then,  yon  know,  what  else  can  you 
expect  from  a  distinguished  poet!  You  always  do  everything 
beautifully !  *  Can  you  recollect,  Mrs.  Massiiiper,  down  the  dim 
al\\  ss  of  twelve  or  eighteen  months,  who  wrote  those  touching 
words,  and  to  whom  she  addressed  them  ?  " 

"  Ah,  that  was  all  very  fine  then,"  V\'inifred  answered  with  a 

30ut,  arranging  Hugh's  Satsuma  jars  with  Japanesque  irregu- 

arity  on  the  dining-room  overmantol.    "  But  yoa  see  that  was 

jefore  I'd  been  about  much  in  London,  and  noticed  how  other 

people  smarten  up  their  rooms,  and  formed  my  own  taste  in  the 

matter  of  decoration.    I  was  then  in  the  frankly  unsophisticated 

state.    I'd  studied  no  models.    I'd  never  seen  anything  beautiful 

to  judge  by." 

"  You  were  then  Miss  Meysey,**'  her  husband  answered,  with 
a  distantly  cold  inflexion  of  voice.  "  You're  now  Mrs.  Hugh  de 
Carteret  Massiiiger.  It's  that  that  makes  all  the  difference,  you 
know.  The  reason  there  are  so  many  discordant  marriages,  says 
Dean  Swift,  with  more  truth  than  politeness,  is  because  young 
women  are  so  much  more  occupied  in  weaviLg  nets  than  in 
making  cages." 

"  I  never  Vv^ove  nets  for  you,"  Winifred  cried  angrily. 

**  Nor  made  cages  either,  it  t-eems,"  Hugh  answered  with  pro- 
voking calmness,  as  he  sauntered  off  by  himself,  cigar  in  hand, 
into  the  new  smoking-room. 

Their  intercourse  nowadays  generally  ended  in  such  little 
amenities.  They  were  beginning  to  conjugate  with  alarming 
frequency  that  verb  to  nag,  which  often  succeeds  in  becoming 
at  last  the  dominant  part  of  speech  in  conjugal  conversation. 

One  portion  of  the  house  at  least,  Hugh  succeeded  in  remodel- 
ling entirely  to  his  own  taste,  and  that  w.is  the  bedroom  which 
had  once  been  Elsie's.  By  throwing  out  a  large  round  bay  window, 
mullioned  and  decorated  out  of  all  recognition,  and  by  papering, 
painting,  and  refurnishing  throughout  with  ostentatious  novelty 
of  design  and  detail,  he  so  completely  altered  the  appearance  of 
that  hateful  room  that  he  could  hardly  know  it  again  himself 
for  the  same  original  square  chamber.  Moreover,  that  he  might 
never  personally  have  to  enter  it,  he  turned  it  into  the  Married 
Guest's  Bedroom.  There  was  the  Prophet's  Chamber  on  the 
Wall  for  the  bachelor  visitors— a  pretty  little  attic  under  the 


re- 


REHEARSAL. 


195 


low  caves,  furnished,  like  the  Shnnaramite's,  with  "  a  bed,  and 
a  table,  and  a  stool,  and  a  candlestick;"  nnd  there  was  the 
Maiden's  Bower  on  the  first  floor,  for  the  young  girls,  with  its 
dainty  pale-green  wardrobe  and  Morris  cabinet;  and  there  wi»3 
the  Blue  Boom  for  the  prospective  heir,  whenever  that  hypo- 
thetical young  gentleman  from  parts  ijnknown  proceeded  to 
realize  himself  in  actual  humanity;  so  Hugh  ventured  to  erect 
the  remodelled  chamber  next  door  to  his  own  into  a  Married 
Guest's  Koom,  where  he  himself  need  never  go  to  vex  his  soul 
with  unholy  reminiscences.  When  he  could  look  up  at  the  Hall 
with  a  bold  face  from  the  grass  plot  in  front,  and  see  no  long<u* 
that  detested  square  window,  with  the  wistaria  fesiooning  itself 
so  luxuriantly  )ound  the  corners,  he  felt  he  might  really  perhaps 
after  all  live  at  Whitestrand.  For  the  wistaria,  too,  that  grand 
old  climber,  with  its  thick  stem,  was  ruthlessly  sacrificed ;  and 
in  its  place  on  the  left  of  the  porch,  Hugh  planted  a  fast-growing 
new-fangled  ampelopsis,  warranted  quickly  to  drape  and  mantle 
the  raw  stone  surfaces,  and  still  further  metamorphose  the  front 
of  the  Hall  from  Avhat  it  had  once  been — when  dead  Elsie  lived 
there.  All  was  changed,  without  and  within.  The  Hall  was  now 
fit  for  a  gentleman  to  dwell  in. 

Only  one  eyesore  still  remained  to  grieve  and  annoy  him. 
The  \Vhite&trand  poplar  yet  faced  and  confronted  him  where- 
ever  he  looked.  It  turned  him  sick.  It  poisoned  Suffolk  for 
him.  The  poplar  must  go !  He  could  never  endure  it.  Life  would, 
indeed  be  a  living  death,  in  sight  for  ever  of  that  detested  and 
grinning  memorial.  For  it  grinned  at  him  often  from  the  gnarled 
and  hollow  trunk.  A  human  face  seemed  to  laugh  out  upon 
him  from  its  shapeless  boles— a  human  face,  fiendish  in  its  joy, 
with  a  carbuncled  nose  and  grinning  mouth.  He  hated  to  see 
it,  it  grinned  so  hideously.  So  he  set  his  wits  to  work  to  devise 
a  way  for  getting  rid  of  the  poplar,  root  and  branchy  without 
unnecessarily  angoring  Winifred. 


m 

f 

1:    1 

1  ; 

CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

REHEARSAL. 

Meanwhile,  when  the  house  was  all  finished  and  decorated 
throughout,  Hugh  turned  his  thoughts  once  more,  on  fame 
intent,  to  his  great  forthcoming  volume  of  verses.  Since  he 
married  Winifred,  he  had  published  little,  eschewing  journalism 
and  such  small  tasks  as  unworthy  the  dignity  of  accomplished 
squiredom ;  but  he  had  been  working  hard  from  time  to  time  at 
polishing  and  repolishing  his  mac/nnm  opus,  "A  Life's  Philosophy" 
— a  lengthy  poem  in  a  metre  of  his  own,  more  or  less  uovel,  and 


m 

'i 


■1 


196 


mis  MORTAL  COIL, 


'<'  -m 


embodying  a  number  of  moral  reflections,  more  or  less  trite,  on 
the  youth,  adolescence,  maturity,  and  decrepitude  of  the  human 
subject.  It  exactly  suited  Mr.  Matthew  Arnold's  well-known 
definition,  being,  in  fact,  an  exhaustive  criticism  of  life,  as  Hugh 
Massinger  himself  had  found  it.  He  meant  to  print  it  in  time 
for  the  autumn  book-season.  It  was  the  great  stake  of  his  life, 
and  he  was  confident  of  success.  He  had  worked  it  up  with  cease- 
less toil  to  what  seemed  to  himself  the  highest  possible  pitch  of 
artistic  handicraft;  and  he  rolled  his  own  sonorous  rhymes  over 
and  over  again  with  infinite  satisfaction  upon  his  literary  palate, 
pronouncing  them  ail,  on  impartial  survey,  of  most  excellent 
flavour.  Nothing  in  life,  indeed,  can  be  more  deceptive  than  the 
poetaster's  confidence  in  his  own  productions.  He  mistakes 
familiarity  for  smoothness  of  ring,  and  a  practiced  hand  for 
genius  and  originality.  It  is  his  fate  always  to  find  his  own 
lines  absolutely  perfect;  in  which  cheerful  personal  creed  the 
rest  of  the  world  mostly  fails  altogether  to  agree  with  him. 

In  such  a  self-congratulatory  and  hopeful  mood,  Hugh  sat 
one  morning  in  the  new  drawing-room,  holding  a  quire  of  closely 
written  sermon-paper  stitched  together  in  his  hand,  and  gazing 
affectionately  with  parental  pride  at  his  last- born  stanzas. 
Winifred  had  only  returned  yesterday  from  a  shopping  expedi- 
tion up  to  town,  and  was  idling  away  a  day  in  rest  and  repair 
alter  her  unwonted  exertion  among  the  crowded  bazaars  of  the 
modern  Bagdad.  So  Hugh  leaned  back  in  his  chair  at  his  ease, 
and,  seized  with  the  sudden  thirst  for  an  audience,  began  to 
pour  forth  in  her  ear  in  his  rotund  manner  the  final  finished  in- 
troductory prelude  to  his  "Life's  Philosophy."  H  .i  wife,  propped 
up  on  the  pillows  of  the  sofa  and  lolling  carelessly,  listened  and 
smiled  as  he  read  and  read,  with  somewhat  sceptical  though 
polite  indifierence. 

"  Let  me  see,  where  had  I  got  to  ?  "  Hugh  went  on  once,  after 
one  of  her  frequent  and  trying  critical  interruptions.  "  You  put 
me  out  so,  Winnie,  with  your  constant  fault-finding !  I  cun't 
recollect  how  far  I'd  read  to  you." 

"'Begotten  unawares:'  now  go  ahead,"  Winifred  answered 
carelessly — as  carelessly  as  though  it  was  some  other  fellow's 
poems  he  had  been  pouring  forth  to  her. 

"  *  Or  bastard  ofi><pring  of  unconscious  nature.  Begotten  un- 
awares,'" Hugh  repeated  pompously,  looking  back  with  a  loving 
eye  at  his  much-admired  manuscript.  "  Now  listen  to  the  next 
good  bit,  Winifred;  it's  really  impressive. — 

XXXII. 

"When  chaos  slowly  set  to  snn  or  planet, 
And  molten  masses  hardened  into  earth ; 
When  primal  force  wrouf^ht  out  on  sea  and  granite 
The  wondrous  miracle  of  living  birth  ; 


REHEARSAL. 

Did  mightier  Mind,  in  clouds  of  glory  hidden, 
Breathe  power  through  its  limbs  to  feel  and  know, 

Or  sentience  spring,  spontaneous  and  unbidden, 
With  feeble  steps  and  slow  ? 

XXXIII. 

**  Are  sense  and  thouc;ht  but  prrasites  o'f  being? 

Did  Nature  mould  our  limbs  to  act  anrl  move, 
But  some  strange  chance  endow  our  eyes  with  seeing, 

Our  nerves  with  feeling,  and  our  hearts  with  love  ? 
Since  all  alone  we  stand,  alone  discerning 

Sorrow  from  joy,  self  from  the  things  without ; 
While  blind  fate  tramples  on  the  spirit's  yearning, 

And  floods  our  souls  with  doubt. 


197 


'i;  jl 
'  1 


1 ' 


XXXIV. 

•'  This  very  tree,  whose  life  is  our  life's  sister, 

We  know  not  if  the  ichor  in  her  veins 
Thrill  with  fierce  joy  when  April  dews  have  kissed  her, 

Or  shrink  in  anguish  from  October  rains  ; 
W^e  search  the  mighty  world  above  and  under. 

Yet  nowhere  find  the  soul  we  fain  would  find  ; 
Speech  in  the  hollow  rumbling  of  the  thunder, 

Words  in  the  whispering  wmd. 


XXXV. 

**  We  yearn  for  brotherhood  wita  lake  and  mountain 

Our  conscious  soul  seeks  conscious  sympathy  ; 
Nymphs  in  the  coppice.  Naiads  in  the  fountain, 

Gods  on  the  craggy  height  or  roaring  sea. 
Wn  find'but  soulless  sequences  of  matter ; 

Fact  linked  to  fact  in  adamantine  rods  ; 
Eternal  bonds  of  former  sense  and  latter ; 

Dead  laws  for  living  gods. 

"  Tliere,  Winifred,  what  do  you  say  to  that  now?  Isn't  that 
calculated  to  take  the  wind  out  of  some  of  these  pretentious 
fellows'  sails  ?    What  do  you  think  of  it  ?  " 

"Think?"  Winifred  answered,  pursing  up  her  lips  into  an 
expression  of  the  utmost  professional  connoisseurship.  "  I  think 
'  granite  *  doesn't  rhyme  in  the  English  language  with  'planet  *; 
and  I  consider  *  sentience '  is  a  horribly  prosaic  word  of  its  sort 
to  introduce  into  serious  poetry, — What's  that  stuff  about  liquor, 
too?  '  We  know  not  if  the  liquor  in  her  something.'  I  don't 
like  'liquor.'  It's  not  good;  bar-room  English,  only  fit  for  a 
public-house  production," 

"  I  didn't  say  '  liquor,' "  Hugh  cried  indignantly.  "  T  said 
•  ichor,'  which  of  course  is  a  very  diflferent  matter,  *  We  know 
not  if  the  ichor  in  her  veins.*  Ichor's  the  blood  of  the  gods  in 
Homer.  That's  the  worst  of  reading  these  things  to  women : 
classical  allusion's  an    utter  blank  to  them. — If  you've  got 


ii 


m 


i-f'. 


■'  1 
:   tj 

'm^  Hf 

■       J: 

:  !  i 


im 


THIS  MORTAL   COIL. 


nothing  better  than  that  to  object,  have  the  kindness,  please, 
not  to  interrupt  me." 

Winifred  closed  her  lipa  with  a  sharp  snap ;  while  Hugh  went 
on,  nothing  abashed,  with  the  same  sonorous  metre-marked 
ia(»uthing — 

XXXVI. 

**  Tliey  care  not  any  whit  for  pain  or  pleasure 

That  seem  to  men  the  sum  and  end  of  all. 
Dumb  force  and  barren  number  are  their  measure : 

What  can  be,  shall  be,  though  the  great  world  fall> 
They  take  no  heed  of  man,  or  man's  deserving, 

Keck  not  what  happy  lives  they  make,  or  mar, 
Work  out  their  fatal  will,  unswerved,  unswerving. 

And  know  not  that  they  are. 

"  Now,  what  do  you  say  to  that,  Winifred  ?  Isn*t  it  just 
hunky?" 

"  I  don't  'like  interrupting,"  Winifred  snapped  out  savajrely. 
"  You  told  me  not  to  interrupt,  except  for  a  good  and  sufficient 
reason." 

*•  W^ell,  don't  be  nasty,"  Hugh  put  in,  half  smiling.  "  This  is 
business,  you  know — a  matter  of  public  appreciation — and  I 
want  your  criticism :  it  all  means  money.  Criticism  from  any- 
body, no  matter  whom,  is  always  worth  at  least  something." 

"  Oh,  thank  you,  so  much.  That  is  polite  of  you.  Then  if 
you  want  criticism,  no  matter  from  whom,  I  sliould  say  I  fail 
to  perceive,  myself,  the  precise  diflference  you  mean  to  suggest 
between  the  two  adjectives  *  unswerved '  and  *  unswerving.'  To 
the  untutored  intelh'^^ence  of  a  mere  woman,  to  whom  classical 
allusion's  an  utter  blank,  they  seem  to  say  exactly  the  same 
thing  twice  over." 

"No,  no,"  Hugh  answered,  getting  warm  in  self-defence. 
" '  Unswerved '  is  passive ;  '  unswerving '  is  active,  or  at  least 
middle:  the  one  means  that  they  swerve  themselves;  the  other, 
that  somebody  or  somethi^  „  .Ise  swerves  them." 

•*  You  do  violence  to  the  genius  of  the  English  language," 
"Winifred  remarked  curtly.  "I  may  not  be  acquainted  with 
Latin  and  Greek,  but  I  talk  at  least  my  mother-tongae.  Are 
you  going  to  print  nothing  but  this  great,  long,  dreary  incom- 
prehensible '  Life's  Philosophy '  in  your  new  volume? " 

"  I  shall  make  it  up  mainly  with  that,"  Hugh  answered,  crest- 
fallen, at  so  obvious  a  failure  favourably  to  impress  the  domestic 
critic.  "But  I  shall  also  eke  out  the  title-piece  with  a  lot  of 
stray  occasional  verses — the  'Funeral  Ode  for  Gambetta,*  for 
example,  and  plenty  of  others  that  I  haven't  read  you.  Some 
of  them  seem  to  me  tolerably  successful."  He  was  growing 
modest  before  the  face  of  her  unflinching  criticism.       - 


REHEARSAL. 


199 


"  Read  me  '  Gambetta/  Winifred  said  with  qniet  imperions- 
ness.  **  I'll  f^ee  if  I  like  that  any  better  than  all  this  foolish 
maundering  '  Philosophy.' " 

Hugh  turned  over  his  papers  for  the  piece  "  by  request,"  and 
after  some  searching  among  quires  and  sheets,  came  at  last 
upon  a  clean  written  copy  of  his  immortal  threnody.  He  began 
reading  out  the  lugubrious  lines  in  a  sufficiently  grandiose  and 
sepulcliral  voice.  Winifred  listened  with  careless  attention,  as 
to  a  matter  little  worthy  her  sublime  consideration.  Hugh 
cleared  his  throat  and  rang  out  magniloquently — 

"Slie  sits  once  more  upon  her  ancient  throne, 

The  fair  Kepublic  of  our  steadfast  vows : 

A  Phrygian  bonnet  binds  her  queenly  brows: 
Athwart'her  neck  her  knotted  hair  ia  blown. 
A  hundred  cities  nestle  in  her  lap, 

Girt  round  their  stately  locks  with  mural  crowns: 
The  folds  of  her  imperial  robe  enwrap 

A  thousand  lesser  towns." 

"'Mural  crowns 'is  good,"  Winifred  murmured  fiatiricaliy: 
"  it  reminds  one  so  vividly  of  the  stone  statues  in  the  Place  de 
la  Concorde." 

Hugh  took  no  notice  of  her  intercalary  criticism.  He  went 
on  with  ten  or  twelve  stanzas  more  of  the  same  bombastic, 
would-be  sublime  character,  and  wound  up  at  last  in  thunderous 
tones  with  a  prophetic  outburst  as  to  the  imagined  career  of 
some  future  Gambetta— himself  possibly — 

*'lle  still  shall  guide  us  toward  the  distant  goal ; 

Calm  with  unerrinj^  tact  our  weak  alarms  ; 

Train  all  our  youth  in  skill  of  manly  arms, 
And  knit  our  sires  in  unity  of  soul : 
Till  bursting  iron  bars  and  gates  of  br?.f^9 

Our  own  Kepublic  stretch  her  arm  u.<;aia 
To  raise  the  weeping  daughters  of  Alsace, 

And  lead  thee  home,  Lorraine. 

"Well,  what  do  you  think  of  that,  Winnie? "  he  asked  at  last 
friuniphautly,  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  has  trotted  out  his 
best  war-horse  for  public  inspection  and  has  no  fear  of  the  effect 
he  is  producing. 

"  Think  ?  "  Winifred  answered.  "  Why,  I  think,  Hugh,  that 
if  Swinburne  had  never  written  his  Ode  to  "Victor  Hugo,  you 
would  never  have  written  that  Funeral  March  for  your  precious 
Gambetta." 

Hugh  bit  his  lip  in  bitter  silence.  The  criticism  was  many 
times  worse  than  harsh  :  it  was  true ;  and  he  knew  it.  But  a 
truthful  critic  is  the  most  galling  of  all  things. 

"  Well,  surely,  Winifred,"  he  cried  at  last,  after  a  long  pause, 
"you  think  those  other  lines  good,  don't  you  V— 


i 

1 

:<':  I 


i 


I'll 


.  I'i , 


«;ii 


200 


THIS  MORTAL  COIL. 


!  m 


*•  And  when  like  some  fierce  whirlwind  through  the  land 
The  wrathful  Teuton  swept,  he  only  dared 
To  hope  and  act  when  every  heart  and  hand, 
But  his  alone,  despaired." 

"My  dear  Hugh/'  Winifred  answered  candidly,  "don't  yoa 
Bee  in  your  own  heart  that  all  this  sort  of  tiling  may  be  very 
well  in  ite  own  way,  but  it  isn't  original — it  isn't  inspiration ; 
it  isn't  the  true  sacred  fire:  it's  only  an  echo.  Echoes  do 
admirably  for  the  young  beginner;  but  in  a  wan  of  your  age— 
for  you're  getting  on  now — we  expect  something  native  and 
idiosyncratic— I  think  Mr.  Hatherley  called  it  idiosyncratic. — 
You  know  Mr  Hatherley  said  to  me  once  you  would  never  be  a 
poet.  You  have  too  good  a  memory.  *  Whenever  Massinger 
sits  down  at  his  detk  to  write  about  anything,'  he  said  in  liis 
quiet  way,  *  he  remembers  such  a  perfect  flood  of  excellent 
things  other  people  have  written  about  the  same  subject,  that 
he's  absolutely  incapable  of  originality.*  And  the  more  I  see 
of  your  poetry,  dear,  the  more  do  I  see  that  Mr,  Hatherley  was 
right — right  beyond  question,  ifou're  clever  enough,  but  you 
kiow  you're  not  original." 

Hugh  answered  her  never  a  single  word.  To  such  a  knock- 
down blow  as  that,  any  answer  at  all  is  clearly  impossible.  He 
only  muttered  something  very  low  to  himself  about  casting 
one's  pearls  before  some  creature  inaudible. 

Presently,  Winifred  spoke  again.  "  Let's  go  out,"  she  said, 
rising  from  the  sofa,  "and  sit  by  the  sea  on  the  roots  of  the 
poplar.'- 

At  the  word,  Hugh  flung  down  the  manuscript  in  a  heap  on 
the  ground  with  a  stronger  expression  than  Winifred  had  ever 
before  heard  fall  from  his  lips,  "I  hate  the  poplar!"  ho  said 
angrily;  "I  detest  the  poplar!  I  won't  have  the  poplar! 
Nothing  on  earth  will  induce  me  to  sit  by  the  poplar ! " 

"  Plow  cross  you  are ! "  Winifred  cried  with  a  frown.  "  You 
jump  at  me  as  if  you'd  snap  my  head  off!  And  all  just  because 
J  didn't  like  your  verses. — Very  well  then;  I'll  go  and  sit  there 
alone.— I  can  amuse  myself,  fortunately,  without  your  help. 
I've  got  Mr.  Hatherley's  clever  article  in  this  month's  Contem- 
porary." 

That  evening,  as  they  sat  together  silently  in  the  drawing- 
room,  Winifred  engaged  in  the  feminine  amusement  of  casting 
admiring  glances  at  her  own  walls,  and  Hugh  poring  deep  over 
a  serious-looking  book,  Winifred  glanced  over  at  him  suddenly 
with  a  sigh,  and  murmured  half  aloud:  "After  all,  really  I 
don't  think  much  of  it." 

"Much  of  what?"  Hugh  asked,  still  bending  over  the  book 
he  was  anxiously  consulting. 

"  Why,  of  that  gourd  I  brought  home  from  town  yesterday. 


REHEARSAL. 


201 


a 

7 
J 
o 


You  know  Mrs.  Walpole's  got  a  gourd  in  her  drawing-room ; 
and  every  time  I  went  into  the  vicaiape  1  said  to  myself:  *  Oh, 
how  lovely  it  is!  How  exquisite!  How  foreign-looking!  If 
only  I  had  a  gourd  like  that,  now,  I  think  life  would  bo  really 
endurable.  It  gives  the  last  touch  of  art  to  the  picture.  Our 
new  drawing-room  would  look  just  perfection  with  such  a 
gonrd  as  hers  to  finish  the  wall  with.'  Well,  I  saw  the  exact 
counterpart  of  that  very  gourd  the  day  before  yesterday  at  a 
shop  in  Jjond  Street.  I  bought  it,  and  brought  it  home  with 
exceeding  great  joy.  I  thought  I  should  then  be  quite  happy. 
I  hung  it  up  on  the  wall  to  try,  this  moining.  And  sitting  here 
all  evening,  looking  at  it  with  my  Ik  ad  first  on  one  side  and 
then  on  the  other,  I've  said  to  myself  a  thousand  times  over: 
*  It  doesn't  look  one  bit  like  Mrs.  Walpole's.  After  all,  I  don't 
know  that  I'm  so  much  happier,  now  I've  got  it,  than  I  was 
before  I  had  a  gourd  of  my  own  at  all  to  look  at." 

Hugh  groaned.  The  unconscious  allegory  was  far  too  obvious 
in  its  application  not  to  sink  into  the  very  depths  of  his  soul. 
He  turned  bacik  to  his  book,  and  sighed  inwardly  to  think  for 
what  a  feeble,  unsatisfactory  shadow  of  a  gourd  ho  had  sacri- 
ficed his  own  life — not  to  speak  of  Winifred's  and  Elsie's. 

By-and-by  Winifred  rose  and  crossed  the  room.  "What's 
that  you're  studying  so  intently? "  she  asked,  with  a  suspicioua 
glance  at  the  book  in  his  fingers. 

Hugh  hesitated,  and  seemed  half  inclined  for  a  moment  to 
shut  the  book  with  a  bang  and  hide  it  away  from  her.  Then  he 
made  up  his  mind  with  a  fresh  resolve  to  brazen  it  out. 
"Gordon's  'Electricity  and  Magnetism,'  he  answered  quietly, 
as  unabashed  as  possible,  holding  the  volume  half-closed  with 
his  forefinger  at  the  page  ho  had  just  hunted  up.  "  I'm — I'm 
interested  at  present  to  some  extent  in  the  subject  of  electricity. 
I'm  thinking  of  getting  it  up  a  little." 

Winifred  took  the  book  from  his  hand,  wondering,  with  a 
masterful  air  of  perfect  authority.  Ho  yielded  like  a  lamb. 
On  immaterial  questions  it  was  his  policy  not  to  resist  her. 
She  turned  to  the  page  where  his  finger  had  rested  and  ran  it 
down  lightly  with  her  quick  eye.  The  key-words  showed  in 
some  degree  at  what  it  was  driving:  "Franklin's  Experiment" 
— "Means  of  Collection" — "Theory  of  Lif^ntning  Eods" — 
"  Ruhmkorlfs  Coils" — "Drawing  down  Eii '•trie  Discharges 
from  the  Clouds." — Why,  what  was  all  this?  She  turned 
round  to  him  inquiringly.  Hugh  shuffled  in  an  uneasy  way  in 
his  chair.  The  husband  who  shutfles  betrays  his  cause.  "  We 
must  put  up  conductors,  Winnie,"  he  said  hesitatingly,  with  a 
hot  face,  "  to  protect  those  new  gables  at  the  east  wing. — It's 
dangerous  to  leave  the  house  so  exposed.  I'll  order  them  down 
from  London  to-morrow." 


:!        m 

i                !  ■'   1 

III 

202 


THIS  MORTAL   COIL. 


Vi  '  m 


i    t 


*•  Conductors !  Fiddlefiticks ! "  Winifred  answered  in  a  breath, 
with  wifely  promptitude.  "  Lightning  never  liurt  the  houiie 
yet,  and  it's  not  going  to  begin  hurting  it  now,  just  because  an 
Immortal  Foot  with  a  fad  for  electricity  has  come  to  live  and 
compose  at  Whitestrand.  If  anything,  it  ought  to  go  the  other 
way.  Bards,  you  know,  are  exempt  from  thunderbolts.  Didn't 
you  read  me  the  lines  yourself, '  God's  lightnings  spared,  they 
said.  Alone  the  holier  head.  Whose  laurels  screened  it,'  or 
something  to  that  effect  ?  You'xo  all  right,  you  see.  Poets  can 
never  get  struck,  I  fancy." 

*'  But  ♦  Mr.  Hatherley  said  to  me  once  you  would  never  be  a 
poot,'"  Hugh  repeated  with  a  smile,  exactly  mimicking  Wini- 
ireds  querulous  little  voice  and  manner.  "  As  my  own  wife 
doesn't  consider  me  n  poet,  Winifred,  I  shall  venture  to  do  as  I 
like  myself  about  my  private  property." 

Winifred  took  up  a  bedroom  candle  and  lighted  it  quietly 
without  a  word.  Then  she  went  up  to  muse  in  her  own  bed- 
room over  her  new  gourd  and  other  disillusioniuents. 

As  soon  as  she  was  gone,  Hugh  ro^e  fiom  his  chair  and 
walked  slowly  into  his  own  study.  Gordon's  "  Electricity " 
was  still  in  his  hand,  and  his  finger  pointed  to  that  incrimina- 
ting passage.  He  sat  down  at  the  sloping  desk  and  wrote  a 
short  note  to  a  well-known  firm  of  scientific  instrument  makers 
whose  address  he  had  copied  a  week  before  from  the  advertise- 
ment sheet  of  A'ature. 


'jf.-m  ■« 


r, 


*'  Whitestrand  Hall,  Alinundhani,  Suffolk. 
"  Gentlemen, 

"Please  forward  me  to  the  above  address,  at  your 
e^irliest  convenience,  your  most  powerful  form  of  Kuhmkorff 
Induction  Coil,  with  secondary  wires  attached,  for  which  cheque 
will  be  sent  in  full  on  receipt  of  invoice  or  retail  price-list. 

*'  Faithfully  yours, 

"Hugh  JVIassingeb. 

As  he  rose  from  the  desk,  he  glanced  half  involuntarily  out 
of  the  study  window.  It  pointed  south.  The  moon  was 
shining  full  on  the  water.  That  hateful  poplar  stared  him 
straight  in  the  face,  as  tall  and  gaunt  and  immovable  as  ever. 
On  its  roots,  a  woman  in  a  white  dress  was  standing,  looking 
out  over  the  angry  sea,  as  Elsie  had  stood,  for  the  twinkling  of 
an  eye,  on  that  terrible  evening  when  he  lost  her  for  ever. 
One  second,  the  sight  sent  a  shiver  through  his  frame,  then  he 
laughed  to  himself,  the  next,  for  his  groundless  terror.  How 
childish!  How  infantile!  It  was  the  gardener's  wife,  in  her 
light  print  frock,  looking  out  to  sea  for  her  boy's  smack,  over- 
due, no  doubt — for   Charlie  was   a  fisherman. — But  it   was 


ACCIDENTS   WILL  HAPPEN. 


203 


intolcrablo  that  lie,  the  Squire  of  Whitestrand,  Rhonld  be  sub- 
jected to  Ruch  horrible  turns  as  these.-  -He  shook  his  list  angrily 
at  the  oflfondiug  tree.  "You  shall  pay  for  it,  my  friend,"  bo 
muttered  low  but  hoarse  between  his  clenched  teeth.  "  You 
shan't  have  many  more  chances  of  frightening  mo  1 " 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 


I 


J 


ACCIDEKTS   WILL  HAPPEIT. 

During  the  whole  of  the  next  week,  the  Squiro  and  a  fitrange 
artisan,  whom  he  had  specially  imported  by  Xv.A  from  London, 
went  much  about  together  by  day  and  night  through  the  grounds 
at  Whitestrand.  A  certain  air  of  mystery  hung  over  their  joint 
proceedings.  The  strange  artisan  was  a  skilled  workman  in  the 
engineering  lino,  he  told  the  people  at  the  Fisherman's  Rest, 
where  he  had  taken  a  bed  for  his  stay  in  the  village;  and  indeed 
sundry  books  in  his  kit  bore  out  the  statement — weird  books  of 
a  scientific  and  diagrammatic  character,  chockfuU  of  formulae  in 
Greek  lettering,  which  seemed  not  unlikely  to  be  connected  with 
hydrostatics,  dynamics,  trigonometry,  and  mechanics,  or  any 
other  equally  abstruse  and  uncanny  subject,  not  wholly  alien  to 
necromancy  and  witchcraft.  It  was  held  at  Whitestrand  by 
those  l>est  able  to  form  an  opinion  in  such  dark  questions,  that 
the  new  importation  was  "  summat  in  the  electric  way  ; "  and  it 
was  certainly  matter  of  plain  fact,  patent  to  all  observers  equally, 
that  he  did  in  very  truth  fix  up  an  elaborate  lightning-conductor 
of  the  latest  pattern  to  the  newly-tiirown-out  gable-end  at  what 
had  once  been  Klsie's  window.  It  was  Elsie's  window  still  to 
Hugh  :  let  him  twist  it  and  turn  it  and  alter  it  as  he  would,  he 
feared  it  would  never,  never  cease  to  be  Elsie's  window. 

But  in  the  domain  at  large,  the  intelligent  artisan  with  the 
engineering  air,  who  was  suruiis'd  to  be  " summat  in  the  electric 
way,"  carefully  examined,  under  Hugh's  directions,  many  parts 
of  the  grounds  of  Whitestrand.  Squire  was  going  to  lay  out  the 
garden  and  terrace  afresh,  the  servants  conjectured  in  their  own 
society:  one  or  two  of  them,  exceedingly  modern  in  their  views, 
even  opined  in  an  ofif-hand  fashion  that  he  must  be  bent  on 
laying  electric  lights  on.  Conservative  in  most  things  to  the 
backbone,  the  servants  bestowed  the  meed  of  their  hearty 
approval  on  the  electric  light :  it  saves  so  much  in  trimming 
and  cleaning.  Lamps  are  the  bug-bear  of  big  country  houses : 
electricity,  on  the  otlier  hand,  needs  no  tending.  It  was  near 
the  poplar  that  Squire  was  going  to  put  his  installation,  as  they 
call  the  arrangement  in  oui*  latlerday  jargon ;  and  he  was  going 


||: 


m 


{ 


ii' 


Ifjl 

4 

1: 


mm 


204 


THIS  MORTAL  COIL, 


Ki   * 


h  : 


to  drive  it,  nimonr  remarked,  by  a  tidal  outfall.  What  a  tida' 
outfall  might  be,  or  how  it  could  work  in  lighting  the  Hall, 
nobody  knew;  but  the  intelligent  artisan  had  let  the  words 
drop  casually  in  the  course  of  conversation ;  and  the  Fisherman's 
Best  snapped  them  up  at  once,  and  retailed  them  freely  with 
profound  gusto  to  all  after-comnrs. 

Still,  it  was  a  curious  fact  in  lis  own  way  that  the  installation 
a])peaved  to  progress  most  easily  when  iiobod>  happened  to  be 
lo  )king  on,  and  that  the  skilled  workman  in  the  engineering 
line  generally  stood  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  surveying 
his  handicraft  with  languid  interest,  whenever  anybody  from 
the  village  or  the  HaU  lounged  up  by  his  side  to  inspect  or 
wonder  at  it. 

More  curious  still  was  another  small  fact,  known  to  nobody 
but  the  skilled  workman  in  propria  persona,  that  four  small 
casks  of  petroleum  from  a  London  store  were  stowed  away,  by 
Hugh  Massinger's  orders,  under  the  very  roots  of  the  big  poplar ; 
and  that  by  their  side  lay  a  queer  apparatus,  connected  ap- 
parently in  some  remote  way  with  electric  lighting. 

The  Squire  himself,  however,  made  no  secret  of  his  own 
personal  and  private  intentions  to  the  London  workman.  He 
paid  the  roan  well,  and  he  exacted  silence.  That  was  all.  But 
he  explained  precisely  in  plain  terms  what  it  was  that  he  wanted 
done.  The  tree  was  an  eyesore  to  him,  he  said,  with  his  usual 
frankness — Hugh  was  always  frank  whenever  possible — but  his 
wife,  for  sentimental  reasons,  had  a  special  fancy  for  it.  He 
wanted  to  get  rid  of  it,  therefore,  in  the  least  obtrusive  way  he 
could  easily  manage.  This  was  the  least  obtrusive  way.  So 
this  was  what}  he  required  done  with  it.  The  London  workman 
nodded  his  head,  pocketed  his  pay,  looked  unconcerned,  and 
held  his  tongue  with  trained  fidelity.  It  was  none  of  his 
business  to  pry  into  any  employer's  motives.  Enough  for  him 
to  take  his  orders  and  to  carry  them  out  faithfully  to  the  very 
letter.  The  job  was  odd :  an  odd  job  is  always  inlioresting.  He 
hoped  the  experiment  might  prove  successful. 

The  Whitestrand  labourers,  who  passed  by  the  poplar  and 
the  London  workman,  time  and  again,  ;vith  a  jerky  nod  and 
their  pipes  turned  downward,  never  noticed  a  certain  slender 
unobtrusive  copper  wire  which  the  strange  artisan  fastened  one 
evening,  in  the  gray  dusk,  right  up  the  stem  and  boles  of  the 
big  tree  to  a  round  knob  on  the  very  summit.  The  wire,  how- 
ever, as  its  fixer  knew,  ran  dovi^n  to  a  large  deal  box  well  buried 
in  the  ground,  which  bore  outside  a  green  label,  "  Ruhmkorff 
Induction  Coil,  Elliott's  Patent."  The  wire  and  coil  terminated 
in  a  pile  close  to  the  four  full  petroleum  barrels.  When  the 
London  workman  had  securely  laid  the  entire  apparatus, 
undisturbed   by  loungers,  he  reported  adversely,  with   great 


vm 


ACCIDENTS   WILL  HAPPEN, 


M 


own 
.  He 
But 
anted 
usual 
it  his 
.  He 
ay  he 
r.  So 
kraan 
aud 
his 
him 


Bolcmnity,  on  the  tidal  outfall  and  electric  light  scheme  to  Hugh 
Massiiiger.  No  sufficient  power  for  the  purpose  existed  in  tho 
river.  This  ndvorse  report  was  orally  delivered  in  tho  front 
vestibule  of  Whitestr.uid  Hall;  and  it  was  also  delivered  with 
sedulous  care — as  per  orders  rt'coivcd— in  Mrs.  Ma'^singer's  own 
presence.  When  tlie  London  workman  wont  out  again  after 
making  his  carefully  worded  statement,  he  went  out  clinking  a 
coin  of  the  realm  or  two  in  his  trousers'  pocket,  and  with  his  I 
tongue  stuck,  somewhat  unbecomingly,  in  his  right  cheek,  as  who 
should  pride  himself  on  the  successful  outwitting  of  an  innocent 
fellow-creaturo.  He  had  done  the  work  he  was  paid  for,  and  he 
had  done  it  well.  But  he  thought  to  himself,  as  ho  went  his 
way  rejoicing,  that  the  Squire  of  Whitestrand  must  be  very  well 
held  in  hand  indeed  by  that  small  pale  lady;  if  ho  had  to  tako 
BO  many  cunning  precautions  in  secret  lieiforelmnd  when  he 
wanted  to  get  rid  of  a  single  tree  that  offended  his  eye  in  his 
own  gardens. 

The  plot  was  all  well  laid  now.  Hugh  had  nothing  further 
left  to  do  but  to  posst^ss  his  soul  in  patience  against  the  next 
thunderstorm.  He  had  not  very  long  to  vait.  Before  tho 
month  was  out,  a  thunderstorm  did  indeed  burst  in  full  force 
over  Whitestrand  and  its  neighbourhood— ono  of  those  terrible 
and  destructive  east  coast  electric  displays  which  invariably 
leave  their  broad  mark  behind  them.  For  along  the  low,  flat, 
monotonous  East  Anglian  shore,  where  hills  are  unknown  and 
big  trees  rare,  tlie  lightning  almost  inevitably  singles  out  for  its 
onslaught  some  aspiring  piece  of  man's  handiwork  —  some 
church  steeple,  some  castle  keep,  the  turrets  on  some  tall  and 
isolated  manor-house,  the  vane  above  some  ancient  castellated 
gateway. 

The  reason  for  this  is  not  far  to  seek.  In  hilly  countries  the 
hills  and  trees  act  as  natural  lightning-conductors,  or  rather  as 
decoys  to  draw  aside  the  fire  from  heaven  from  the  towns  or 
farmhouses  that  nestle  far  below  among  the  glens  aud  valleys. 
But  in  wide  level  plains,  where  all  alike  is  flat  and  low-lying, 
human  architecture  forms  for  the  most  part  the  one  salient 
point  in  the  landscape  for  lightning  to  attack :  every  church  or 
tower  with  its  battlements  and  lanterns  stands  in  the  place  of 
the  polished  knobs  on  an  electric  mnc  ine,  and  draws  down 
upon  itself  with  unerring  certainty  the  destructive  bolt  from 
the  overcharged  clouds.  Owing  to  this  cause,  the  thunderstorms 
of  East  Anglia  are  the  most  appalling  and  destructive  in  their 
concrete  results  of  any  in  England.  The  laden  clouds,  big  with 
electric  energy,  hang  low  and  dark  above  one's  very  head,  and 
let  loose  their  accumulated  store  of  vivid  flashes  in  the  exact 
midst  of  towns  and  villages. 
This  particular  thunderstorm,  as  chance  would  have  it,  camo 
14 


■  ■■  <» 


200 


THIS  MORTAL   COIL. 


lato  at  iii^lit,  after  tbreo  fliiltry  flays  of  cIopo  weather,  when  bip 
black  massos  were  just  l)o;;iiming  to  gather  in  vast  battalioiiH 
over  the  German  Ocean;  and  it  lot  loose  at  last  its  fierce  artillery 
in  terrible  volleys  right  over  the  village  and  grounds  of  White- 
fitrand.  Hugh  Massinger  was  the  first  at  the  Hall  to  observe 
from  afar  the  distant  flash,  Iwsforo  the  thunder  had  made  itself 
audible  in  their  ears.  A  pale  light  to  westward,  in  the  direction 
of  Snade,  attracte(],  as  he  read,  his  paHsing  attention.  "  By 
Jove ! "  he  ciiod,  rising  with  a  yawn  from  his  chair,  and  laying 
down  the  manuscript  of  "  A  Lilo's  Philosophy,"  wliich  he  was 
languidly  correcting  in  its  later  stanzas,  "that's  something  like 
lightning,  Winifred!  Over  Siiado  way,  apparently.  I  wonder 
if  it's  going  to  drift  towards  us? — Whew — what  a  clap!  It's 
precious  near.    I  expect  we  shall  catch  it  ourselves  shortly." 

The  clouds  rolled  up  with  extraordinary  rapidity,  and  the 
claps  came  fast  and  thick  and  nearer.  V\  inifred  cowered  down 
on  the  sofa  in  terror.  She  dreaded  thunder;  but  she  was  too 
proud  to  confess  what  she  would  nevertheless  have  given  worlds 
to  do— hide  her  frightened  little  head  with  sobs  and  tears  in  its 
old  place  upon  Hugh's  shoulder.  "It's  coming  this  way,"  she 
ciicd  nervously  after  a  while.  "  That  last  flash  must  have  been 
awfully  near  us." 

Even  as  slie  spoke,  a  terrific  volley  seemed  to  burst  all  at  once 
right  over  their  heads  and  sliake  the  house  with  its  irresistible 
majesty.  Winifred  buried  her  face  deep  in  the  cushions.  "  Oli, 
Hugh,"  she  cried  in  a  terrified  tone,  "  tiiis  is  awful— awful ! " 

Much  as  he  longed  to  look  out  of  the  window,  Hugh  could 
not  resist  that  unspoken  api)eal.  Ho  drew  up  the  blind  hastily 
to  its  full  height,  so  that  he  might  see  out  to  watch  the  success 
of  his  deep-laid  stratagem;  then  he  hurried  over  with  real 
tenderness  to  Winifred's  side.  He  drew  his  arm  round  her  »ind 
soothed  her  with  his  hand,  and  laid  her  poor  throbbing  aching 
head  with  a  lover's  caress  upon  his  own  broad  bosom.  Winifred 
nestled  close  to  him  with  a  sigh  of  relief.  The  nearness  of 
danger,  real  or  imagined,  rouses  all  the  most  ingrained  and  pro- 
found of  our  virile  feelings.  The  instinct  of  protection  for  the 
woman  and  the  child  comes  over  even  bad  men  at  such  moments 
of  doubt  with  irresistible  might  and  majesty.  Small  differences 
or  tiffs  are  forgotten  and  forgiven :  the  woman  clings  naturally 
in  her  feminine  weakness  to  the  strong  man  in  his  primary 
aspect  as  comforter  and  protector.  Between  Hugh  and  Winifred 
the  estrangement  as  yet  was  but  vague  and  unacknowledged. 
Had  it  yawned  far  wider,  had  it  sunk  far  deeper,  the  awe  and 
teri\)r  of  that  supreme  moment  would  amply  have  sufficf.'d  to 
bridge  it  over,  at  Itast  while  the  orgy  of  the  thunderstorm 
lasted. 

For  next  instant  a  sheet  of  liquid  flame  seemed  to  surround 


ACCIDENTS    WILL  HAP  PEN. 


20T 


i, 


and  ongnlf  tlio  whole  hotiRo  at  once  in  its  white  omhrnce.  The 
world  becttnio  for  the  twinkling  of  iin  eye  ono  Kurging  tlorxl  of 
vivid  fire,  ono  roar  and  crash  and  sea  of  deafening  tumult. 
Winifroil  buried  her  face  deeper  than  ever  on  Hugh's  shoulder, 
and  put  up  both  her  small  hands  to  her  tingling  ears,  to  crush  if 
possible  the  hideous  roar  out.  But  the  liglit  and  sound  seemed 
to  penetrate  over^'thing:  she  was  aware  of  them  keenly  through 
her  very  bones  and  nerves  and  marrow;  her  entire  being 
ap|)cared  as  if  pervaded  and  overwhelmed  with  tho  horror  of  the 
lightning.  In  another  moment  all  was  over,  and  she  was  con- 
ficiouH  only  of  an  abiding  awe,  a  deep-seated  after-glow  of  alarm 
and  terror.  liut  Hugh  had  started  up  from  the  sofa  now,  both 
his  hands  clnspwl  hard  in  front  of  his  breast,  and  was  gazing 
wildly  out  of  the  big  bow-window,  and  lifting  up  his  voice  in  a 
paroxysm  of  excitement.  "  It's  hit  the  poplar!  "  ho  cried.  *'  It's 
hit  the  poplar!  It  must  bo  terribly  near,  Winnie  1  It's  hit  tho 
poplar!" 

Winifred  opened  her  eyes  with  an  effort,  and  saw  him  standing 
there,  as  i    spellbound,  by  the  window.    8he  dared  not  get  up 
and  cimie  any  nearer  the  front  of  the  room,  but,  raising  her  eyes, 
she  saw  from  where  she  sat,  or  rather  crouched,  that  the  poplar 
stood  out,  ono  living  mass  of  rampant  flame,  a  flaring  beacon, 
from  top  to  bottom.    The  petroleum,  ignited  and  raised  to 
flashing-point  by  the  fire  which  the  induction  coil  had  drawn 
down  from  heaven,  gave  off  its  blazing  vapour  in  huge  rolling 
sheets  and  forked  tongues  of  flame,  which  licked  up  tho  crackling 
branches  of  the  dry  old  tree  from  base  to  summit  like  so  miu!h 
touchwood.    The  poplar  rose  now  one  solid  column  of  crimson 
tire.     The  rod  glow  deepened  and  widened  from  moment   to 
moment.    Even  the  drenching  rain  that  followed  the  thunder- 
clap seemed  powerless  to  check  that  frantic  onslaught.    The  fire 
leaped  and  danced  through  the  tall  straight  boughs  with  mad 
exultation,  hissing  out  its  defiance  to  the  big  round  drops  which 
burst  off  into  tiny  balls  of  steam  before  they  could  reach  the 
red-hot  trunk  and  snapping  branches.    Even  left  to  itself,  the 
poplar,  once  ignited,  would  have  burnt  to  the  ground  with 
startling  rapidity  ;  for  its  core  was  dry  and  light  as  tinder,  its 
wood  was  eaten  throu{>h  by  innumerable  worm-holes,  and  the 
hollow  centre  of  moulderinf  dry-rot,  where  children  had  loved 
to  play  at  hide-and-seek,  acted  now  like  a  roaring  chimney  flue, 
with  a  fierce  draught  that  carried  up  the  circling  eddies  of 
Fmoke  and  flame  in  mad  career  to  the  topmost  branches.    But 
the  fumes  of  the  petroleum,  rendered  instantly  gaseous  by  the 
electric  h(  at,  made  the  work  of  destruction  still  more  instan- 
taneous, terrible,  and  complete  than  it  would  have  proved  if 
left  to  unaided  nature.    The  very  atmosphere  resolved  itself  into 
one  rolling  pillar  of  fluid  flame.      The  tree  seemed  enveloped  in 


III' 


208 


THIS  MORTAL  COIL. 


i  m 


,iiii 


1 4<'ii 


a  slirond  of  firo.  All  human  effort  must  be  poweilcss  to  resist 
it.  The  poplar  dissolved  almost  as  if  by  magic  with  a  wild 
rapidity  into  its  prime  elements. 

A  man  must  be  a  man  come  what  may.  Hugh  leaped  towards 
the  window  and  flung  it  open  wildly.  "  I  must  go ! "  he  cried. 
"  Eing  the  bell  for  the  servants."  The  savage  glee  in  his  voice 
was  well  repressed.  His  enemy  was  low,  laid  prone  at  his  feet, 
but  he  would  at  least  pretend  to  some  spark  of  magnanimity. 
"  We  must  get  out  the  hose ! "  he  exclaimed.  "  We  must  try  to 
save  it!"  Winifred  clung  to  his  arm  in  horror.  "Let  it  burn 
down,  Hugh ! "  she  cried.  "  Who  cares  for  the  poplar  ?  I'd 
sooner  ten  thousand  poplars  burned  to  the  ground  than  that 
you  should  venture  out  on  such  an  evening  1 " 

Her  hand  on  his  arm  thrilled  through  him  with  horror.  Her 
words  stung  him  vdth  a  sense  of  his  meanness.  Something 
very  like  a  touch  of  remorse  came  over  his  spirit.  He  stooped 
down  and  kissed  her  tenderly.  The  next  flash  struck  over 
towards  the  sandhills.  The  thunder  was  rolling  gradually 
seaward. 

Hugh  slept  but  little  that  eventful  night ;  his  mind  addressed 
itself  with  feverish  eagerness  to  so  many  hard  and  doubtful 
questions.  He  tossed  and  turned  and  asked  himself  ten  thou- 
sand times  over— was  the  tree  burnt  through — burnt  down  to 
the  ground?  ^^'ere  the  roots  and  trunk  consumed  beyond 
hope — or  rather  beyond  fear — of  ultimate  recovery  ?  Was  the 
hateful  poplar  really  done  for  ?  Would  any  trace  remain  of  the 
bnrrels  that  had  held  the  tell-tale  petroleum  ?  any  relic  be  left 
of  the  Ruhmkorff  Induction  sCoil  ?  What  jot  or  tittle  of  the 
evidence  of  design  would  now  survive  to  betray  and  "onvict 
him  ?  What  ground  for  reastmable  suspicion  would  Winifred 
see  that  the  fire  was  not  wholly  the  result  of  accident  ? 

But  when  next  morning's  light  dawned  and  the  sun  arose 
upon  the  scene  of  conflagration,  Hugh  saw  at  a  glance  that  all 
his  fears  had  indeed  been  wholly  and  utterly  groundless.  The 
poplar  was  as  though  it  had  never  existed.  A  bare  black  patch 
l)y  the  mouth  of  the  Char,  covered  with  ash  and  dust  and 
cinder,  alone  marked  the  spot  where  the  famous  tree  had  once 
stood.  The  very  roots  were  burned  deep  into  the  zround.  The 
petroleum  had  done  its  duty  bravely.  Not  a  trace  of  design 
could  be  observed  anywhere.  The  Ruhmkorff  Induction  Coil 
had  melted  into  air.  Nobody  ever  so  much  as  dreamed  that 
human  handicraft  had  art  or  part  in  the  burning  of  the  cele- 
brated Whitestrand  poplar.  The  Times  gave  it  a  line  of  passing 
regret;  and  the  Trinity  House  deleted  it  with  pains  as  a  lost 
landmark  from  their  sailing  directions. 

Hugh  set  his  workmen  instantly  to  stub  up  the  roots.  And 
Winifred,  gazing  mournfully  next  day  ft  the  ruins,  observed 


ACCIDENTS   WILL  HAPPEN. 


209 


with  a  sigh :  "  You  never  liked  the  dear  old  tree,  Hugh ;  and  it 
seems  as  if  fate  had  interposed  in  your  favour  to  destroy  it.  I'm 
sorry  it's  gone ;  but  I'd  sacrifice  a  hundred  such  trees  any  day 
to  have  you  as  kind  to  nie  as  you  were,  last  evening." 

The  saying  smote  Hugh's  heart  sore.  He  played  nervously 
with  the  button  of  his  coat.  "I  wish  you  could  have  kept  it, 
Winnie,"  he  said  not  unkindly.  "  But  it's  not  my  fault. — And  I 
bear  no  malice.  I'll  even  forgive  you  for  telling  me  I'd  never 
mt^ke  a  poet ;  though  that,  you'll  admit,  was  a  hard  saying.  I 
think,  my  child,  if  you  don't  mind,  I'll  ask  Hatherley  down  next 
week  to  visit  us. — There's  nothing  like  adverse  opinion  to 
improve  one's  work.  Hatherley's  opinion  is  more  than  adverse. 
I'd  like  his  criticism  on  '  A  Life's  Philosophy  *  before  I  rush  into 
print  at  last  with  the  greatest  and  deepest  work  of  my  lifetime." 

That  same  evening,  as  it  was  growing  dusk,  Warren  Keif  and 
Potts,  navigating  the  Mud-Turtle  around  by  sea  from  Yarmouth 
Roads,  put  in  for  the  night  to  the  Char  at  Whitestrand.  They 
meant  to  lie  by  for  a  Sunday  in  the  estuary,  and  walk  across  the 
fields,  if  the  day  proved  fine,  to  service  at  Snade.  As  they 
approached  the  mouth  tliey  looked  about  in  vain  for  the  familiar 
landmark.  At  fijst  they  could  hardly  believe  their  eyes :  to  men 
who  knew  the  east  coast  well,  the  disappearance  of  the  White- 
strand  poplar  from  the  world  seemed  almost  as  incredihle  as  the 
sudden  removal  of  the  Bass  Rock  or  the  Pillars  of  Hercules. 
Nobody  would  ever  dream  of  cutting  down  that  glory  of  Suffolk, 
that  time-honoured  sea-mark.  But  as  they  strained  their  eyes 
through  the  deepening  gloom,  the  stern  logic  of  facts  left  them 
at  last  no  further  room  for  syllogistic  reasoning  or  a  priori 
scepticism.  The  Whitestrand  poplar  was  really  gone.  Not  a 
stump  )ven  remained  as  its  relic  or  its  monument. 

They  drove  the  yawl  close  under  the  shore.  The  current  was 
setting  out  stronger  than  ever,  and  eddying  back  against  the 
base  of  the  roots  with  a  fierce  and  eager  swirling  movement. 
Warren  Relf  looked  over  the  bank  in  doubt  at  the  charred  and 
blackened  soil  beside  it.  He  knew  in  a  second  exactly  what  had 
happened.  **  Massinger  has  burned  down  the  poplar.  Potts,"  he 
cried  aloud.  He  did  not  add,  "  because  it  stood  upon  the  very 
spot  where  Elsie  Challouer  threw  herself  over."  But  he  knew 
it  was  so.  They  turned  the  yawl  up  stream  once  more.  Then 
Warren  Relf  murmured  in  a  low  voice,  more  than  half  to  him- 
self, but  in  solemn  accents  :  "  So  much  the  worse  in  the  end  for 
Whitestrand." 

All  the  way  up  to  the  Fisherman's  Rest  he  repeated  again  and 
again  below  his  breath:  *'So  much  the  worse  in  the  end  for 
Whitestrand." 


lii 


(;, 


210 


THIS  MORTAL   COIL 


CHAPTER  XXX. 


THE    BARD  IN   HARNESS. 


ttv\i 

111 


11  ii'4a 


m 


i  i 


y  .'*« 


I     ! 


"  I  NEVER  felt  more  astonished  in  my  life,"  Hatlicrloy  rcmarlved 
one  day  some  weeks  later  to  a  chosen  circle  at  the  Cheyne  Kow 
Club,  "than  I  felt  on  the  very  first  morning  of  my  visit  to 
Whitestrand.  Talk  about  being  driven  by  a  lady,  indeed!   Why, 
that  frail  httle  woman's  got  the  Bard  in  harness,  as  right  and 
as  tight  as  if  he  were  a  respectable  cheesemonger. — What  on 
earth  do  you  think  happened  ?  As  the  Divine  Singer  and  I  were 
starting  out,  stick  in  hand,  for  a  peregrination  of  the  estate — or 
what  there  is  Icl't  of  it — if  that  perky  little  atomy  didn't  poke 
her  fuzzy,  tow-bewigged  head  out  of  the  dining-room  window, 
and  call  out  in  the  most  matter-of-fact  tone  possible :  *  Hugh, 
if  you're  going  to  the  village  to-day,  mind  you  don't  forget  to 
bring  me  t)ack  three  kippered  lierrings! ' — '  Three  whit  ?  '  said 
I,  scarcely  believing  my  ears. — '  Three  kippered  herrings,'  that 
unblusliing  little  minx  repeated  in  a^  tiudible  voice,  wholly  un- 
abashed at  the  absurdity  of  her  request. — '  Well,'  said  I,  in  a 
fover  of  surprise,  'it  may  be  all  right  when  you've  got  them 
well  in  hand,  you  know ;  but  you'll  admit,  Mrs.  Massingcr,  that's 
not  the  nse  to  which  we  generally  put  immortal  minstrels!' — 
'  Oh,  but  this  is  such  a   very  mild  specimen  of  the  genu8, 
though ! '   Mrs.   Massinger  answered,   laughing    carelessly.— I 
looked  at  the  Bard  with  tremulous  awe,  expecting  to  see  thu 
angry  fire  in  his  cold  gray  eye  flashing  forth  like  the  leven  bolt 
from  heaven  to  scath  and  consume  her.    Not  a  bit  of  it.    Nary 
scath  !     The  Immortal  Singer  merely  took  out  his  tablets  from 
his  waistcoat  pocket  and  made  a  note  of  the  absurd  commission. 
And  when  we  came  home  again  an  hour  afterwards,  I  solemnly 
assure  you  ho  was  carrying  those  throe  identical   kip|)ored 
herrings,  wrapped  up  in  a  sheet  of  dirty  newspaper,  in  the  very 
hand  that  wrote '  The  Death  of  Alaric' — It's  too  surprising.  The 
Bard's  done  for.    His  life  is  finished.     There  the  Man  sto))s. 
The  Husband  and  Father  may  drag  out  a  wretched  domestic 
existence  yet  for  another  twenty  years.     But  the  Man  is  dead, 
hopelessly  dead.    Julius  Ctesar    himself 's    not    more    utterly 
defunct.     That  girl  has  extinguished  him." 

"  Are  there  any  children,  then  ?  "  one  of  the  chosen  circle  put 
in  casually. 

*'  Children !  No.  Bar  twins,  the  plural  would  surely  be 
premature,  so  far.  There  was  a  child  born  just  after  old  Mrs. 
Moysey's  death,  I  believe ;  but  it  came  to  nothing — a  mere 
abortive  attempt  at  a  son  and  heir — and  loft  the  mother  a  poor 


THE  BARD   IN  HARm:SS. 


211 


wreck,  her  own  miserable  faded  photograph.  Slie  was  a  nice 
little  girl  enough,  in  her  small  way,  when  she  was  hero  in  town; 
amusing  and  sprightly ;  but  the  Bard  lias  done  for  her,  as  she's 
(lone  for  the  Bard.  It's  a  mutual  annihilation  society,  like 
Stevenson's  Suicide  Club  on  a  more  private  platform. — He  seems 
to  have  crushed  all  the  giddy  girlishness  out  of  her.  The  fact 
is,  this  is  a  case  of  incompatibility  of  disposition— for  which 
cause  I  believe  you  can  get  a  divorce  in  Illinois  or  some  other 
enlightened  Far  Western  community.  You  can't  stop  three  days 
at  Whitestrand  without  feeling  there's  a  skeleton  in  the  house 
somewhere ! " 

The  skeleton  in  the  house,  long  carefully  confined  to  its 
native  cupboard,  had  indeed  l)egun  to  perambulate  the  Hall  in 
open  daylight  during  the  brief  period  of  Hatherley's  visit.  He 
reached  the  newly  remodelled  home  just  in  time  to  dress  for 
dinner.  When  he  descended  to  the  ill-lighted  drawing-room, 
five  minutes  late — Whitestrand  could  boast  no  native  gas- 
supply,  and  candles  are  expensive — he  gave  his  arm  with  a 
sense  of  solemn  obligation  to  poor  dark-clad  Winifred. 
Mrs.  Massinger  was  indeed  altered— sadly  altered.  Three 
painful  losses  in  quick  succession  had  told  upon  that  slender 
pale  young  wife.  She  showed  her  paleness  in  her  deep  black 
dress :  colours  suited  Winifred :  in  mourning,  she  was  hardly 
even  pretty.  The  little  "  arrangement  in  pink  and  white  "  had 
faded  almost  into  white  alone :  the  pinknoss  had  proved  a 
fleeting  pigment :  she  was  not  warranted  fa>^t  colours.  But 
Hatherley  did  his  best  with  innate  gallantry  not  to  notice  the 
change.  Fresh  from  town,  crammed  with  the  last  good  things 
of  the  Cheyne  Row  and  Mrs.  Bouverie  Barton's  Wednesday 
evenings,  he  tried  hard  with  conscientious  efforts  to  keep  the 
conversation  from  flagging  visibly.  At  first  he  succeeded  with 
creditable  skill;  and  Hugh,  looking  across  at  his  wife  with  a 
curious  smile,  said  in  a  tone  of  genuine  pleasure :  "  How  delight- 
ful it  is,  after  all,  Winnie,  to  get  a  hold  of  somebody,  direct  from 
the  real  live  world  of  London,  in  the  midst  of  our  fossilized 
antediluvian  Whitestrand  society! — I  declare,  Hatherley,  it  does 
one's  heart  good,  like  champagne,  to  listen  to  you.  A  breath  of 
Bohemia  blows  across  Suffolk  the  moment  you  arrive.  Poor 
drowsy,  somnolent,  petrified  Suffolk!  'Silly  Suffolk,' even  the 
aborigines  themselves  call  it.  It's  catching,  too.  I'm  almost 
beginning  to  fall  asleep  myself,  by  force  of  example." 

At  the  words,  Winifred  fired  up  in  defence  of  her  native 
county.  "  I'm  suro,  Hugh,"  she  said  with  some  asperity,  "  I 
don't  know  why  you're  always  trying  to  run  down  Suffolk!  If 
you  didn't  like  us,  you  should  have  avoided  the  shire;  you 
slrould  have  carried  your  respected  presence  elsewhere.    Suffolk 


•^ 

1 

f 

i  ' 

1 

1 

If 

J 

( 

212 


THIS  MORTAL   COIL. 


!     I 


¥\l 


if    I 


never  invited  you  to  honour  it  with  your  suffrages.  You  cnmo 
and  settled  hero  of  your  own  free  will.  And  who  could  be  nicer 
or  more  cultivated,  if  it  comes  to  that,  tlian  some  of  our  Suffolk 
aborigines,  as  you  call  them  ?  Dear  old  Mrs.  Walpole  at  the 
vicarage,  for  example." 

Hugh  balanced  an  olive  on  the  end  of  his  fork.  "An  amiahle 
old  Hecuba,"  he  answered  provokingly.  "  What's  Hecuba  to 
me,  or  I  to  Hecuba  V  Her  latest  dates  are  about  the  period  of 
the  siege  of  Troy,  or,  to  be  more  precisely  accurate,  the  year 
1850.  She's  extremely  well  read,  1  grunt  you  that,  in  Bulwer 
Lytton  and  the  poets  of  the  Regency.  She  adores  Cowper,  and 
considers  Voltaire  a  most  dangerous  writer.  Slie  has  even  heard 
of  fJismarck  and  Bulgaria;  and  she  understands  that  a  young 
man  named  Swinburjie  has  lately  published  some  very  objection- 
able and  unwho'esorae  verses,  not  suited  to  the  cheek  of  the 
young  person. — The  idea  of  sticking  me  down  with  people  like 
that,  who  never  read  a  line  of  Browning  in  their  lives,  and  ask 
if  Mr.  William  Morris  'the  upholsterer,'  who  furnished  and 
decorated  our  poor  little  drawing-room,  is  really  a  brother  of 
that  eccentric  and  ratlier  heterodox  preacher! — My  dear 
Hatherley,  when  you  come  down,  I  feel  like  a  n)an  who  has 
breathed  fresh  air  on  some  high  mountain— stimulated  and 
invigorated.  You  palpitate  with  actuality.  Down  here,  we 
stagnate  in  the  seventeenth  century." 

Winifred  bit  her  lip  with  vexation,  but  said  nothing.  It  was 
evident  the  subject  was  an  un])loa?ant  one  to  her.  But  she  at 
least  would  not  trot  out  the  skeleton.  Women  are  all  for  due 
concealment  of  your  dirty  linen.  It  is  men  who  insist  on  wash- 
ing it  in  public. 

Next  morning — the  morning  of  the  kippered  herring  adven- 
ture— Hugh  showed  Hatiierley  round  the  Whitestrand  estate. 
Hatherley  himself  was  not,  to  say  the  truth,  in  the  best  of 
humours.  Mrs.  Massinger  was  dull  and  not  what  she  used  to 
be:  she  obviously  resented  his  bright  London  gossip,  as  throw- 
ing into  stronger  and  clearer  relief  the  innate  stupidity  of  her 
ancestral  Suffolk.  The  breakfast  was  bad ;  the  coffee  sloppy ; 
and  the  dishes  suggested  too  obvious  reminiscences  of  the 
joints  and  entrees  at  last  night's  dinner.  Clearly,  the  Mas- 
singers  were  struggling  hard  to  keep  up  appearances  on  an  in- 
sufficient income.  They  were  stretching  their  means  much  too 
thin.  The  Morris  drawing-room  was  all  very  well  in  its  way, 
of  course;  but  tulip-pattern  curtains  and  De  Morgan  pottery 
don't  quite  make  up  for  a  rechauffe  of  kidneys.  Moreover,  a 
suspicion  floated  dimly  through  the  air  that  to-morrow's  dawn 
would  see  those  three  kii)pered  herrings  as  the  sole  alternative 
to  the  curried  drumsticks  left  behind  as  a  legacy  by  this 
evening's  roast  chicken.     Hatherley  was  an  epicure,  like  most 


THE  BARD  IN  HABNESS. 


213 


club-bred  men,  and  his  converse  for  the  day  took  a  colour  from 
the  breakfast  table  for  good  or  for  evil.  So  ho  started  out  that 
morning  in  a  dormant  ill-humour,  prepared  to  tease  and 
"draw"  Massinger,  who  had  had  the  bad  taste  to  desert 
Boliemia  for  dull  respectability  and  ill-paid  Squiredom  in  the 
wilds  of  Suffolk. 

Hugh  showed  him  first  the  region  of  the  pandhills.  The 
sandhills  were  a  decent  bit  to  begin  with.  "  ^olian  sands ! " 
IJatherley  murmured  contemplatively  as  Hugh  mentioned  the 
name.  "  How  very  pretty !  How  very  poetical !  You  can 
hardly  repret  it  yourself.  Massinger,  this  overwhelming  of  your 
salt  marslies  by  tlie  shifting  sands,  when  you  retlect  at  leisure  it 
was  really  done  by  anything  with  so  sweet  an  epithet  as  Jiolian." 

"I  thought  so  once,"  Hu^h  answered  dryly,  with  obvious 
distaste,  "  when  it  was  the  property  of  my  late  respected  father- 
in-law.  But  circumstances  alter  cases,  you  know,  as  somebody 
once  remarked  with  luminous  platitude ;  and  since  I  came  into 
the  estate  myself,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  can't  forgive  tho 
beastly  sands,  even  though  they  happen  to  be  called  iEolian." 

"iEolian  sands,"  Hatherley  repeated  once  more,  half  aloud, 
with  a  tender  reluctance.  '*  Curious ;  there's  hardly  any  word 
in  the  language  to  rhyme  with  so  simple  a  sound  as  JSolian. 
Tinolian  does  it,  of  course;  but  Tmolian,  you  see,  is  scarcely 
English,  or  if  English  at  all,  only  by  courtesy.  There's  a  fellow 
called  Croll,  I  believe,  who's  invented  a  splendid  theory  of  his 
own  about  the  <jllacial  Epoch;  but  I've  never  seen  it  anywhere 
described  in  print  as  the  Croll ian  hypothesis.  One  might  coin 
the  adjective,  of  course,  on  the  analogy  of  Darwinian  and 
Carlylese  and  Euskinesque  and  Tennysouian ;  but  it's  scarcely 
legitimate  to  coin  a  word  f^r  the  sake  of  a  rhyme,  ^olian — 
Crollian :  the  jingle  would  only  go  down,  I'm  afraid,  in  geolo- 
gical circles." 

Hugh's  lip  curled  contemptuously.  He  had  passed  through 
all  that:  he  knew  its  hollowuess  only  too  well — the  merely 
literary  way  of  regarding  things.  Time  was  when  he  himself 
had  seen  in  everything  but  a  chance  for  crisp  and  telling 
epigrams,  an  opening  for  a  particular  rhyme  or  turn  of  phrase. 
Kowadays,  however,  all  that  was  changed :  he  knew  better:  he 
was  a  practical  man — a  Spuire  and  a  landlord.  "My  dear 
fellow,"  he  said,  with  some  slight  acerbity  peeping  through  the 
threadbare  places  in  his  friendly  tone,  "men  talk  like  that 
when  they're  hojitlessly  young.  Contact  with  affairs  makes  a 
man  soon  forget  phrases.  We  deal  in  facts,  not  words,  when 
we  finally  arrive  at  years  of  discretion.  I  think  now  of  the 
reality  of  the  blown  sand — the  depreciation  and  loss  of  rent — 
not  the  mere  prettiness  of  the  sound  iEolian." 

"  Yes,  I  know,  my  dear  boy,"  Hatherley  answered,  in  his 


I     'i 


214 


THIS  MORTAL  COIL. 


W   '^'. 


.    f 


il 


patronizing  way,  scarcely  smearing  his  barb  with  delusive 
honey.  **  You've  gone  over  to  the  enemy  now :  you've  elected 
to  dwell  in  the  courts  of  Gath:  you're  no  longer  of  Ours: 
you're  an  adopted  Philistine.  DeFcrters  do  well  to  fight  in 
defence  of  their  new  side.  You'd  rather  have  your  wretched 
fiit  salt  marshes,  with  their  prize  oxen  and  their  lean  agues, 
thnn  all  these  pretty  little  tumbled  sandhills  that  make  such  a 
fairyland  of  mimic  hillsides. — Don't  say  you  wouldn't,  for  I 
know  you  would :  you  descend  on  stepping-stones  of  your  dead 
self,  the  opposite  way  from  Tennyson's  people,  to  lOwer  things 
— even  to  the  nethermost  abysses  of  Philistia." 

Hugh  swung  his  cane  uneasily  in  his  hand.  He  remembered 
only  too  well  that  summer  afternoon  when  he  himself — not  yet 
a  full-fledged  squireen — had  indulged  in  that  self-same  rhyme 
of  '•  iEolian,"  *'  Tmolian,"  before  the  astonished  face  of  old  Mr. 
Meysey.  He  remembered  the  magnificent  long-horned  High- 
land cattle — "Bulls  that  walk  the  pastures  in  kingly-flashing 
coats,"  he  had  called  them  that  day,  after  George  Meredith. 
He  knew  now  they  were  only  old  Grimes's  black  Ayrshires, 
fattened  for  market  upon  the  rank  salt-marsh  vegetation. 
"  Well,  you  see,  Hatherley,"  ho  said,  with  a  certain  inward 
consciousness  of  appearing  to  his  friend  at  an  appalling  disad- 
vantage, "  we  must  look  at  practical  matters  from  a  practical 
standpoint.  Government's  behaved  scandalously  to  the  land- 
owners about  the  protection  of  the  Suffolk  foreshore.  These 
sandhills  tell  upon  a  fellow's  income.  If  the  sand  could  only  be 
turned  into  gold  dust " 

Hatherley  interrupted  him  with  a  happy  thought.  "  *  Where 
Afric's  sunny  fountains  Eoll  down  their  golden  sand,' "  he  cried 
with  an  attitude.  "If  the  Char  were  only  Pactolus,  now,  *a 
fellow's  income '  would  be  still  intact.  There's*  the  very  rhyme 
for  you.  '  iEolian ' — *  Pactolian  : '  you  can  write  a  sonnet  to  it 
embodying  that  notion. — At  least  you  could  have  written  one. 
in  the  good  old  days,  when  you  were  still  landless  and  still 
immortal.  But  in  these  latter  times,  as  you  say  yourself,  con- 
tact with  affairs  has  certainly  made  you  forget  phrases. — You've 
come  down  from  Olympus  to  be  a  Suffolk  Squire.  You'll  admit 
it  yourself,  there's  been  a  terrible  failing  off,  of  late,  you  know 
— one  can't  deny  it— in  your  verses„  Massinger." 

"  Bohemia  is  naturally  intolerant  of  seceders,"  Hugh  an- 
swered gloomily.  "Each  man  sees  in  his  neighbour's  back- 
sliding the  premonition  of  his  own  proximate  downfall. — You 
will  marry  in  time,  and  migrate,  even  you  yourself,  to  fixed 
quarters  in  Askelon. — Prague's  a  capital  town,  to  secure 
lodgings  in  for  some  weeks  of  one's  youth,  but  it's  not  the 
precise  place  where  a  man  would  like  to  settle  down  for  a 
whole  lifetime." 


THE  BARD  IN  HA E^ ESS. 


215 


They  walked  alonpf  in  silence  for  a  while,  each  absorbed  in 
his  own  thoughts — Uutlierley  ruminating  npon  this  melancholy 
spejtaclo  of  a  degenerate  son  of  dear  old  Cheyne  Row  gone 
wrong  for  ever:  Massinger  reflecting  iij  liis  own  mind  upon  the 
closer  insight  into  the  facts  of  life  which  property,  with  its 
cares  and  responsibilities,  gives  one- -when  he  suddenly  halted 
with  a  short  sharp  whistle  at  the  turn  of  the  path.  "  Whew  1 " 
he  cried;  "why,  what  the  dickens  is  this?  The  poplar's  dis- 
appeared— at  least,  its  place,  I  mean." 

*'Ah,  yes!  Mrs.  Massinger  told  me  all  about  that  unlucky 
poplar  when  you  were  gone  last  night,"  Hatherley  answered 
cheerfully.  "  The  only  good  object  in  the  view,  she  said— and  I 
can  easily  believe  her,  to  judge  by  the  remainder,  It  got  struck 
by  lightning  one  stormy  night,  and  disappeared  then  and  there 
entirely!" 

"This  is  strange — very  strange!"  Hugh  went  on  to  himself, 
never  heeding  the  babbling  interruption.  "The  sand's  clearly 
collected  on  this  side  of  late.  There's  a  distinct  hummock 
herC;,  like  the  ones  at  Grimes's. — I  wonder  what  on  earth  these 
waves  and  mounds  of  sand  can  mean '?— The  wind's  not  goiug 
to  attack  this  side  of  the  river,  too,  is  it '?  " 

"  Ah,  Squoive,"  a  man  at  work  in  the  field  put  in,  coming  up 
to  join  them,  and  leaning  upon  his  pitchfork — "  ah'm  glad  yo'vo 
come  to  see  it  yourself,  naow.  That's  jest  what  it  be.  The 
sand's  a-driftin'.  Ah  said  to  Tom,  the  night  the  thunderbolt 
took  th'  owd  poplar — ah  said:  'Tom,'  says  ah,  'that  there 
poplar  were  the  only  bar  as  stopped  the  river  an'  the  sand  from 
shitting.  It's  shifted  all  along  till  it's  reached  the  poplar;  an' 
naow  it'll  sliift  an'  shift  an'  shift  till  it  gets  to  Lowestoft  or 
mayhap  to  Norwich.' — An'  if  yo'U  look,  Squoire,  yo'll  see  for 
yourself— the  river's  acshally  runnin'  zackly  where  the  tree  had 
uped  to  stand;  an'  the  sand's  a-driftiu'  an'  a-driftin',  same  as  it 
allays  drift  down  yonnor  at  Grimes's.  An'  it's  my  belief  it'll 
never  stop  till  it's  swallowed  up  the  Hall  and  the  whole  o* 
Whitestrnnd  " 

Hugh  Massinger  gazed  in  silence  at  the  spot  where  the 
Whitestrand  piplar  had  once  stood  with  an  utter  feeling  of 
sinking  helplessness  taking  possession  at  once  of  his  heart  and 
bosom.  A  single  g'unce  told  him  beyond  doubt  the  man  was 
right.  The  poplar  had  stood  as  the  one  frail  barrier  to  the 
winds  and  waves  of  the  German  Ocean.  He  had  burnt  it  down, 
by  w.i'e  and  guile,  of  deliberate  intent,  that  night  of  the  thunder- 
storm, to  get  rid  of  the  single  mute  witness  to  Elsie's  suicide. 
And  now,  his  Nemesis  had  worked  itself  out.  The  sea  was 
atlvancing,  inch  by  inch,  with  irresistible  march,  against  doomed 
Whitt  strand. 

Inch  by  inch!    Nay,  yard  by  yard.    Gazing  across  to  the 


i  ifi  i 


i  H 


i  i 


<  I 


hi  I 


■m 


216 


T/775  MORTAL   COIL. 


opposite  bank,  and  roughly  measuring  the  distance  with  his 
eye,  Hugh  saw  the  river  had  been  diverted  northward  many 
feet  since  he  last  visited  the  site  of  the  poplar.  He  always 
avoided  that  hateful  spot:  the  very  interval  that  had  elapsed 
since  his  last  visit  enabled  him  all  the  better  to  gauge  at  sight 
the  distance  the  river  had  advanced  meanwhile  in  its  fcilent 
invasion. 

"  I  must  get  an  cnfoineer  to  come  down  and  see  to  this,"  he 
snid  shortly.  "  We  must  put  up  a  breakwater  ourselves,  I 
suppose,  sineo  a  supine  administration  refuses  to  lielp  us. — I 
wonder  who's  the  proper  man  to  go  to  fcr  breakwaters  ?  I'd 
wire  to  town  to-night,  if  I  know  whom  to  wire  to,  and  check  the 
thing  before  it  runs  any  farther." 

*' What's  that  Swinburne  says?"  Hathorloy  asked  musingly. 
"I  forget  the  exact  run  of  tlio  pari?cular  lines,  but  they  occur 
somewhere  in  the  '  Hymn  to  Proserpine ' — 

•  Will  j'e  bridle  the  deep  sea  with  reins  ?  will  ye  chasten  the  high  sea  with 

rods  ? 
Will  ye  take  her  to  chain  her  with  chains  who  is  older  than  all,  ye  gods? » 

I  don't  expect,  my  dear  boy,  your  engineer  will  do  much  for 
}ou.  Man's  but  a  pigmy  before  these  natural  powers.  A 
breakwater's  helpless  against  the  ceaseless  dashing  of  thu 
eternal  sea." 

Hugh  Massinp,v^r  almost  lost  his  temper — especially  when  ho 
reflected  with  bitter  self-abasement  that  those  were  the  very 
lines  he  had  quoted  to  Elsie — in  his  foolish  pre-territorial  da^s 
— about  Mr.  Mcysey's  sensible  proposals  for  obtaining  an 
injunction  against  the  German  Ocean.  "  Eternal  seal  Eternal 
fiddlesticks ! "  he  answered  testily.  *'  It's  all  very  well  for  you  to 
talk ;  but  it's  a  matter  of  life  and  death  to  me,  this  checking 
the  inroads  of  your  eternal  humbug.  Eternal  sea,  inde(!d! 
What  utter  rubbish!  It's  the  curse  of  the  purely  literary 
intellect  that  it  never  looks  at  Things  at  all,  but  only  at 
Phrases. — We've  got  to  built  a  breakwater,  that's  what  it  comes 
to.     And  a  breakwater  '11  run  into  a  pot  of  money." 

*'  Pity  the  old  tree  ever  got  burnt  down,  anyhow,  to  begin 
with,"  Hatherley  murmured  low,  endeavcniring,  now  he  had 
fairly  drawn  his  man,  to  assume  a  sjmiJathetio  expression  of 
countenance. 

"  No ! "  Hugh  thundered  back  savagely  at  last,  unable  to 
control  himself.  *"  Having  to  build  a  breakwater's  bad  enough ; 
but  I  wouldn't  have  that  hateful  old  tree  buck  again  there  for 
all  the  gold  that  ever  flowed  in  that  Pactolus  you  chatter  about. 
— Leave  the  tree  alone,  I  say.    Confound  it!    I  hate  it!" 

They  walked  back  slowly  to  the  Hall  in  silence,  passing 
tl  "ough  the  village  even  so,  out  of  pure  habit,  lor  the  three 


THE  BARD  IN  EABNESS. 


217 


herrings.  Hugli  was  evidently  very  much  put  out.  Hatherley 
considered  him  even  rude  and  bearish.  A  man  should  restraia 
himself  before  the  faces  of  his  guests.  At  the  door,  Hatherley 
strolled  off  round  the  garden  walks  and  lit  a  cigar.  Hugh  went 
up  to  his  own  dressing-room. 

The  rest  Hatherley  never  knew;  he  only  knew  that  at 
dinner  that  night  Mrs.  Massinger's  eyes  were  red  and  sore  with 
crying.  For  when  Hugh  reached  his  own  room — that  pretty 
little  dressing-room  with  the  pomegranate  wall-paper  and  the 
pale  blue  Liihore  hangings — he  found  Winifred  fiddling  at  his 
lu'ivttte  desk,  a  new  tall  black-walnut  desk  with  endless  drawers 
and  niches  and  pigeon-holes.  A  sudden  something  rose  in  his 
throat  as  he  saw  her  fumbling  at  the  doors  of  the  cabinet. 
Where  b  d  she  found  that  carefully  guarded  key? — >ha,  he 
knew!  'Jhat  fellow  Hatherley.! — Hatherley  had  taken  a  cipar 
from  his  case  as  they  went  out  for  their  stroll  together  that 
luckless  morning;  and  instead  of  returning  the  case  to  its  owner, 
had  laid  it  down  in  his  careless  way  on  the  study  table.  He 
always  kept  the  key  concealed  in  the  case. — Winifred  must 
accidentally  have  found  it,  and  tried  to  worm  out  her  husband's 
secrets. — He  hated  such  meanness  in  other  people.  How  much, 
he  wondered,  had  she  found  out  now  alter  all  for  her  trouble  ? 

Ah! 

They  bo*h  cried  out  in  one  voice  together ;  for  Winifred  had 
o))ened  a  pigeon-hole  box  with  the  special  key,  and  was  looking 
intently  with  rigid  eyes  at — a  small  gold  watch  and  a  bundle  of 
letters. 

With  a  wild  dart  forward,  Hugh  tore  them  from  her  gi'asp 
and  ciunchcd  them  in  his  hand;  but  not  before  Winifred  had 
seen  two  things :  first,  that  the  watch  was  a  counterpart  of  her 
own— the  very  watch  Hugh  had  given  to  Elsie  Challoner; 
S'  cond,  that  the  letters  were  in  a  familiar  hand — no  other  hand 
than  Elsie  Challoner's. 

She  fronted  him  long  with  a  pale  cold  face.  Hugh  took  the 
watch  and  letters  before  her  very  eyes,  and  locked  them  up  again 
in  their  pigeon-hole,  angrily.  "  So  this  is  how  you  play  the  spy 
upon  me ! "  he  cried  at  last  with  supreme  contempt  in  his  voice 
and  manner. 

But  Winifred  simply  answered  nothing.  She  burst  into  a 
fierce  wild  flood  of  tears.  "I  knew  it!"  she  moaned  in  an 
agony  of  slighted  affection.    "  I  knew  it  I    I  knew  it ! " 

So,  after  all,  in  spite  of  her  flight  and  her  pretended  coolness, 
Elsie  was  corresponding  still  with  her  husband !  Cruel,  cruel, 
cruel  Elsie!  Yet  why  had  she  given  him  back  his  watch 
again?  That  was  more  than  Winifred  could  ever  explain  in 
her  simple  philosophy.  She  could  only  cry  and  cry  her  eyes 
out. 


mxaUiismm 


21b 


Tnia  MORTAL  COIL. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 


^il 


I 


COMING   ROUND. 


When  Warren  Eclf  steered  back  his  barque  to  Ran  Remo  and 
Elfciio  that  next  autumn,  ho  had  not  yet  exactly  been  *'  boomed," 
ns  Edie  had  predicted ;  but  hia  artistic  or  rather  his  business 
prospects  had  improved  considerably  through  the  intervening 
Bummer.  Hatherley's  persistent  friendly  notices  of  his  work  in 
the  Charing  Cross  lievlew,  and  Mitchisou's  constant  flow  of 
rhapsodies  about  his  "charming  morbidezza"  in  West  End 
drawing-rooms,  had  begun  to  bring  his  sea-pieces  at  last  more 
prominently  into  notice.  The  skipper  of  the  Mud- Turtle  had 
gone  up  one.  It  was  the  mode  to  speak  of  him  now  in  artistic 
coteries,  no  longer  as  a  melancholy  instance  of  well-meaning 
failure,  but  as  a  young  man  of  rising  though  misunderstood 
talent.  His  knowledge  of"  values  " was  allowed  to  be  profound. 
If  you  wished  to  lead  the  fore-front  of  opinion,  indeed,  you  re- 
ferred familiarly  in  a  parenthetical  side-sentence  to  "genius 
like  Biirne  Jones's,  or  Rolf's,  or  VVatts's."  To  be  sure,  he  didn't 
}et  sell;  but  it  was  understood  in  astute  buying  circles  tliat 
people  who  could  pick  up  an  early  Relf  dirt  cheap  and  were 
prepared  to  hang  on  long  enough  to  their  purchase,  would  be 
sure  in  the  end  to  f^ee  the  colour  of  their  money.  It  was  even 
asserted  by  exceptionally  kiiowinr;  connoisseurs  at  the  Bur- 
lington and  the  Savage  that  that  colour  would  most  probably 
have  changed  meanwhile,  by  the  subtle  alchemy  of  unearned 
increment,  from  silvery  white  to  golden  yellow.  Warren  Relf 
sat  perched  on  the  flowing  tide  of  opportunism  ;  and  all  critics 
are  abandoned  opportunists  by  use  and  by  nature.  They  in- 
variably salute  the  rising  sun ;  the  coming  man  has  their 
warmest  suffrages. 

That  winter  at  San  Remo  was  the  happi?st  Warren  had  yet 
passed  there  ;  for  he  began  to  perceive  that  Elsie  was  relenting. 
In  a  timid,  tremulous,  shamefaced,  unacknowledged  sort  of  way, 
she  was  learning  little  by  little  to  love  him.  She  would  not 
confess  it  at  first,  even  to  herself.  Elsie  was  too  much  of  a 
woman  to  admit  in  the  intimacy  of  her  own  heart,  far  less  in 
the  ear  of  any  outside  confidante,  that  having  once  loved  Hugh 
she  could  now  veer  round  and  love  Warren.  The  sense  of 
personal  consistency  runs  deep  in  women.  They  can't  bear  to 
turn  their  backs  upon  their  dead  selves,  even  though  it  be  in 
order  to  rise  to  higher  and  ever  higher  planes  of  aflection  and 
devotion.  Still,  in  spite  of  everything,  Elsie  Challoner  grew  by 
degrees  dimly  aware  that  she  did  actually  love  the  quiet  young 


COMING  ROUND. 


219 


iDarine  painter.    Slio  liad  a  hard  stmpRlo  with  herself,  to  bo 
Bure,  before  she  could  quite  recognize  the  fact ;  but  she  recog- 
nised it  at  last,  and  in  lier  own  heart  frankly  admitted  it. 
Warren  was  not  indeed  externally  brilliant  and  vivid,  like 
Hugh ;  he  didn't  sparkle  with  epigraiii  and  npartoo ;  the  soul 
that  was  in  him  lot  itself  out  more  fully  and  freely  on  quiet 
canvas,  in  beautiful  dreamy  poetic  imaginings,  than  in  the 
feverisli  give-and-tuko  of  modern  SDciety.    It  let  itself  out  more 
fully  and  freely,  too,  in  the  gentle  repose  of  ti'te-a-tf:te  talk  than 
in  the  stimulating  atmosphere  ot  o  big  dining-room,  or  of  Mrs. 
Bouverie  Uarton's  celebrated  Vedncsday  evening  receptions. 
But  while  Hugh  scintillatt  d,  Warren  Keifs  nature  burned  rather 
with  a  clear  and  steady  flame.    It  was  easy  enough  for  anybody 
to  admire  Hugh ;  his  strong  points  glittered  in  the  eye  of  day  : 
only  those  who  dip  a  little  below  the  surface  ever  reached  the 
profounder  depths  of  good  and  beauty  that  lay  hid  in  such  a 
mind  as  Warren's.   Yet  Elsie  felt  in  her  own  soul  it  was  a  truer 
thing  after  all  to  love  Waijen  than  to  love  Hugh ;  a  greater 
triumph  to  have  won  Warren's  deep  and  earnest  regard  than  to 
liave  impressed  Hugh's  fancy  once  with  a  selfish  passion.    She 
felt  all  that;  but  being  a  woman,  of  course  she  never  acknow- 
ledged it.    She  went  on  fightinjr  hard  against  her  own  heart,  on 
behalf  of  the  old  dead  worse  lovo,  and  to  the  detriment  of  the 
new  and  living  better  one ;  and  all  the  while  she  pretended  to 
herself  she  was  thereby  displaying  her  profound  affection  and 
her  noble  consistency.    She  must  never  marry  Warren,  whom 
she  truly  loved,  and  who  truly  loved  her,  for  the  sake  of  that 
Hugh  who  had  never  loved  her,  and  whom  she  herself  could 
never  have  loved  liad  she  only  known  hira  as  he  really  was  in  all 
his  mean  and  selfish  inner  nature.    That  may  be  foolish,  but  it's 
intensely  womanly.    We  must  take  women  as  they  are.    They 
were  made  so  at  first,  and  all  our  philosophy  will  never  mend  ir. 
She  couldn't  endure  that  any  one  should  imagine  she  had 
forgotten  her  love  and  her  sorrow  for  Hugh.      She  couldn't 
endure,  after  her  experience  with  Hugh,  that  any  man  should 
take  her,  thus  helpless  and  penniless.    If  she'd  been  an  heiress 
like  Winifred,  now,  things  might  perhaps  have  been  a  little 
different ;  if  by  marrying  Warren  she  could  have  put  him  in  a 
l)osition  to  prosecute  his  art,  as  she  would  have  wished  him  to 
prosecute  it,  without  regard  for  the  base  and  vulgar  necessity 
of  earning  bread-aud-cheese  for  himself  and  his  family,  she 
might  possibly  have  consented  in  such  a  case  to  forego  her  own 
private  and  personal  feelings,  and  to  make  him  happy  for  »^rt's 
sake  and  humanity's.    But  to  burden  his  struggling  life  still 
further,  when  she  knew  how  little  his  art  brought  him,  and  how 
much  he  longed  to  earn  an  income  for  his  mother  and  Edie  to 
retire  upon— </ia<  she  couldn't  bear  to  face  for  a  moment.    She 


>■ 


220 


THIS  MORTAL    COIL 


^.2 


•t '  i 


f  'ii 


would  dismiss  tlie  Rubjcct;  sho  would  mako  him  feel  shu  couM 
iiovor  1)0  his;  it  was  only  tantaliziiig  poor  kiiid-ht'Uitod  Wurrou 
to  keep  him  danf^jliug  about  ur.y  lonj^er. 

'*  l-lsio,"  ho  tiiid  to  her  one  day  on  tho  liills,  as  tlioy  strolled 
to^'cthor,  by  olive  and  pinowood,  among  tho  aspliodols  and 
HiKiuones,  "I  hud  another 


letter  from  London  this 
iiuusou  bus  bold  the 


morning, 
liudo  do 


Tlio  market's  looking  up 
Villerraucho.'" 

"I'm  80  gild,  Warren,"  Elsie  answered  warmly.  "It's  a 
fr;\veot  picture-  one  of  your  loveliest.  Did  you  got  a  good  price 
lor  it  ?  " 

"  Forty  guineas.  That's  not  so  bad  as  prices  go.  So  I'm 
going  to  buy  Kdie  that  now  dinner  dross  you  and  I  were  talking 
ubout.  1  know  you  won't  mind  running  over  to  Mentono  and 
choosin;-'  some  nice  stuff  at  tho  dra])cr's  there  for  mo.  Things  are 
looking  up.  There's  no  doubt  I'm  rising  in  the  English  market. 
My  current  quo'ations  improve  daily.  IJenson  sa^s  he  sold  that 
bit  to  a  rich  An  ei  ican.  Americans,  if  you  can  once  manage  to 
catch  them,  are  capital  customers — 'patrons,'  I  suppose,  ono 
ought  to  siiy ;  but  1  decline  to  be  patronized  by  a  rich  American. 
1  think  '  customer,'  after  all,  a  mucii  truer  and  sincorer  word — 
tun  thousand  times  as  manly  and  indepondont." 

**  So  I  tiiink  too.  I  hate  patronage.  It  savours  of  flunkeydom ; 
betrays  the  toadyism  of  fashionable  ait— -the  '  Portrait-of-a- 
Gentleman '  stylo  of  painting. — But,  oh,  Warren,  I'm  so  sorry 
the  Hade's  to  be  transported  to  America.  It's  such  a  graceful, 
delicate,  dainty  little  picture.  I  quito  loved  it.  To  me  that 
seems  the  most  terrible  part  of  all  an  artist's  trials  and  troubles. 
There  you  toil  and  moil  and  slave  and  labour  at  one  of  your 
ex(iuisite,  poetical,  self-absorbing  pictures ;  you  throw  a  part  of 
your  life,  a  share  of  your  soul,  a  piece  of  your  own  inner  spiritual 
being,  on  to  your  simple  square  of  dead  canvas;  you  mako  it 
live  and  breathe  and  feel  almost ;  you  work  away  at  it,  absorbed 
and  entranced  in  it,  living  in  it  and  dreaming  of  it,  for  days  and 
wioks  and  months  together;  you  give  it  a  thousand  last  long 
loving  touches;  you  alter  and  corr. '^t, and  improve  and  modify; 
you  wait  till  it  all  absolutely  tatisties  your  own  high  and 
exacting  critical  standard;  and  then,  after  you've  lavished  on  it 
your  utmost  care  and  skill  and  pains — after  you've  learned  to 
know  and  to  love  it  tenderly — after  it's  become  to  you  some- 
thing like  your  own  child — an  offspring  of  your  inmost  and 
tleepest  nature — you  sell  it  away  lor  prompt  cash  to  a  rich 
American,  who'll  hang  it  up  in  his  brand-new  drawing-room  at 
St.  Louis  or  Cliicago  between  two  horrid  daubs  by  fashionable 
London  or  Paris  painters,  and  who'll  say  to  his  friends  with  a 
smile  after  dinner:  '  Yes,  that's  a  pretty  little  thing  enough  in 
its  way,  that  tiny  sea-pitco  there.     1  gave  forty  guineas  in  Eng- 


COM  ISO  ROUND. 


221 


3(1 


Eng- 


Innd  for  that:  it's  byT^olfof  London.— IJut observe  this  splen.lid 
'•  CIcopatm  "  ov«  r  licr*',  just  above  tlio  sirteboard :  she's  a  real 
So-and-so' — torture itsc^lf  will  not  induoo  the  present  chronicler 
to  nutno  the  particnlur  Tiaintor  of  fashionable  nudities  whom 
Elsie  thus  pilloried  on  the  scaffold  of  her  hi>;h  disdain— 'I 
paid  for  that,  sir,  a  cool  twenty  thousand  dollars! ' " 

Warren  smiled  a  smile  of  thrilling  pleasure,  and  investigated 
his  boots  with  shy  timidity.  Such  sympathy  from  her  out- 
W(3i}il  oi]  a  round  dozen  of  American  purchasers.  "Thank  you, 
KIsic,"  ho  said  simply.  '♦  That's  quite  true.  I've  felt  it  myself.— 
But  still,  in  the  end,  all  pood  work,  if  it's  really  good,  will  appeal 
somehow,  at  some  time,  to  somebody,  somewhere.  I  confess  I 
often  envy  authors  in  that.  Their  linished  work  is  impressed 
upm  a  thousand  copies,  and  scattered  broadcast  over  all  the 
world.  Sooner  or  later  it's  pretty  sure  to  meet  the  eyes  of  most 
among  those  who  are  capable  of  appreciating  it, — But  a  painting 
is  a  much  more  monopolist  product.  If  the  wrong  man  happens 
at  first  to  buy  it  and  to  carry  it  into  the  wholly  wrong  society, 
tlie  p.'untcr  may  feel  for  the  moment  his  work  is  lost,  and  his 
time  thrown  away,  so  far  as  any  direct  appreciation  or  loving 
sympathy  with  his  idoa  is  concerned. — Still,  Elsie,  it  gets  its 
reward  in  due  time.  When  we're  all  dead  and  gone,  some  soul 
will  look  upon  the  picture  and  be  glad.  And  it's  a  great  tiling 
to  have  sold  the  Bade,  anyway,  because  of  the  dear  old  Mater 
and  Edie. — I'm  able  to  do  a  groat  deal  more  for  them  now;  I 
hope  I  shall  soon  be  in  a  position  to  keep  them  comfortably. — 
And  do  you  know,  somehow,  these  last  few  years — I'm  ashamed 
to  say  it,  but  it's  the  fact  none  the  less — I've  begun  to  feel  a 
sort  of  nascent  desire  to  be  successful,  Elsie." 

Elsie  dropped  her  voice  a  touo  lower.  "I'm  sorry  for  that, 
Warren,"  she  answered  shyly. 

"Why  so?" 

Elsie  dissimulated.  "  Because  one  of  the  things  I  most  admired 
about  you  when  I  first  knew  you  was  your  sturdy  desire  to  do 
good  work  for  its  own  sake,  and  to  leave  success  to  take  care  of 
itself  in  the  dim  background." 

"  But,  Elsie,  I've  many  more  reasons  now  to  wish  for  success. 
— You  know  why — I've  never  told  you,  but  I  begin  to  hope — I've 
ventured  to  hope  the  last  few  months— I  know  it's  presumptuous 
of  me,  but  still  I  hope — that  when  1  can  earn  enough  to  make  a 
wife  happy " 

Elsie  stopped  dead  short  at  once  on  the  narrow  path  that 
wound  in  and  out  among  the  clambering  pine-woods,  and  front- 
ing hira  full,  with  licr  parasol  planted  firmly  on  the  ground,  cut 
him  off  in  a  desperately  resolute  tone:  *'  Warren,  if  I  wouldn't 
marry  you  unsuccessful,  you  may  be  quite  sure  success  at  any 
rate  would  never,  never  induce  me  to  marry  you.'* 
15 


^SSMMUiBii 


222 


27/75  MOBTAL  COIL. 


^m 


It  was  the  first  time  in  all  her  life  she  had  said  a  single  word 
about  raarringe  before  him,  and  Warren  therefore  at  once  ac- 
cepted it,  paradoxically  but  rightly,  as  a  good  omen.  "  Then 
you  love  me,  Elsie?  "  he  cried,  all  trembling. 

Elsie's  heart  fluttered  with  painful  tremors.  "  Don't  ask  me, 
Warren ! "  she  murmured,  thrilliirg.  **  Don't  make  me  say  so. — 
Don't  worm  it  out  of  me ! — Dear  Warren,  you  know  I  liko  you 
dearly.  I  feel  and  have  always  felt  towards  you  like  a  sister. 
After  all  I've  suffered,  don't  torment  me  any  more. — I  can  never, 
never,  never  marry  you ! " 

"  But  you  do  love  me,  Elsie  ?  " 

Elsie's  eyes  fell  irresolute  to  the  groun<l.  It  was  a  hard  fight 
between  love  and  pride.  But  Warren's  pleading  face  conquered 
in  the  end.    "  I  do  love  you,  Warren,"  she  answered  simply. 

'*  Then  I  don't  mind  the  rest,"  Warren  cried  with  a  joyous 
burst,  seizing  her  hand  in  his.  "  If  you  love  me,  Elsie,  I  can 
wait  for  ever.  Success  or  no  success,  marriage  or  no  marriage, 
1  can  wait  for  ever.    I  only  want  to  know  you  love  me." 

**  You  will  have  to  wait  for  ever,"  Elsie  answered  low.  "Yon 
have  made  me  say  the  word,  and  in  spite  of  myself  I  have  said 
it.  1  love  you,  Warren,  but  I  can  never,  never,  never  marry 
you!" 

"  And  I  say,"  Edie  Eelf  remarked  with  much  incisivonosR, 
when  Elsie  told  her  bit  by  bit  the  whole  story  that  same  evening 
at  the  Villa  Eossa,  "  that  you  treated  him  very  shabbily  indeed, 
and  that  Warren's  a  great  deal  too  good  and  kind  and  sweet  to 
you.  Some  girls  don't  know  when  they're  well  off.  Warren's 
a  brick — that's  what  I  call  him." 

"  That's  what  I  call  him  too,"  Elsie  answered,  half  tearful. 
*'  At  least  I  would,  if  brick  was  a  word  I  ever  applied  to  any- 
body anywhere.  i3ut  still — I  can  never,  never,  never  marry 
him!" 

'*  Thank  goodness,"  Edie  said,  with  a  jerk  of  her  head, "  I 
wasn't  born  romantic  and  hysterical.  Whenever  any  nice  good 
fellow  that  I  can  really  like  swims  into  my  ken  and  asks  me  to 
marry  him— which  unfortunately  none  of  the  nice  good  fellows 
of  m;"  acquaintance  show  the  slightest  inclination  at  present  to 
do — i  sliall  answer  him  promptly,  'Like  a  bird — Arthur,'  or 
Thomas,  or  Guy,  or  Walter,  or  Reginald,  or  whatever  else  his 
nice  good  name  may  happen  to  be — Mr.  Hatherley's  is  Arthur 
• — and  proceed  at  once  to  makj  him  happy  for  ever.  But  some 
people  seem  to  prefer  tantalizing  them.  For  my  own  part,  my 
dear,  I've  a  distinct  preference  for  making  men  happy  whenever 
possible.  I  waa  born  to  make  a  good  man  happy,  and  I'd  make 
him  happy  with  the  greatest  pleasure  in  life,  if  only  the  good 
man  would  recognize  my  abilities  for  the  production  of  happi  - 


ON  TRIAL. 


223 


ncss,  and  give  me  the  desired  oppoituriity  for  translnting  my 
benevolent  wishes  towards  him  into  actual  practice.  But  good 
men  are  painfully  scarce  nowadays.  They  don't  swarm.  They 
retire  bashfully.  Very  few  of  them  seem  to  float  by  accident  in 
their  gay  shallops  towards  the  port  of  San  Eemo." 


CEAPTER  XXXTI. 


id,  "I 

good 
me  to 
ellows 
ent  to 
ur,'  or 
so  his 
Arthur 

some 
rt,  my 
enevtr 

make 
Q  good 
happi- 


ON  TRIAL. 

Mattkhs  at  Whitcstrand  had  been  going,  meanwhile,  from  bad 
to  worse.  Winifred  never  siioko  another  word  to  Hugh  about 
Elsie's  watch.  Her  pride  prevented  her.  She  would  not  stoop 
to  demand  an  explanation.  And  Hugh  had  no  explnnation  of 
his  own  to  volunteer.  No  ready  lie  rose  spontaneous  to  his 
lips.    He  dropped  the  subject,  then  and  for  ever. 

But  the  question  of  the  encroaclimcnts  could  not  be  quit©  so 
cavalierly  dropped:  it  pressed  itself  insidiously  and  silently 
upon  Hugh's  attention.  An  eminent  engineer  came  down  from 
London  to  inspect  the  sand-drifts,  shortly  after  Hatherley's 
visit.  By  that  time,  the  sand  l.ad  risen  high  on  the  post  of  the 
aggressive  notice-board  which  informed  the  would-be  tourist 
explorer,  with  the  usual  churlishness  and  the  usual  ignorance 
of  English  procedure,  that  Trespa^^sers  would  be  Prosecuted 
with  the  Utmost  Rigour  of  the  Law.  The  ocean,  however, 
refused  to  be  terrorized,  and  trespassed  unabashed  in  the  very 
face  of  the  alarming  notice.  Hugh  took  his  new  ally  down  to 
inspect  the  threatened  corner  of  the  estate.  The  eminent 
engineer  stroked  a  reflective  chin  and  remarked  cheerfully  with 
a  meditative  smile  that  currents  were  very  ticklish  things  to 
deal  with,  on  their  own  ground  :  that  when  you  interfered  with 
the  natural  course  of  a  current,  you  never  could  tell  which  way 
it  would  go  next ;  and  that  diverting  it  was  much  like  taking  a 
leap  in  the  dark,  as  far  as  probable  consequences  to  the  shore 
were  concerned.  Afte/  which  reassuring  vaticinations,  the 
eminent  engineer  proceeded  at  once  with  perfect  confidence  to 
erect  an  expensive  and  inr^enious  breakwater  oflf  the  site  of  the 
poplar,  which  strained  the  slender  balloon  of  Hugh's  remaining 
credit  to  the  very  verge  of  its  utmost  bursting  point.  A  year 
j.'issed  by  in  the  work  of  building  and  throwing  out  the  break- 
water: and  as  soon  as  it  was  finished,  with  much  acclamation, 
a  scour  set  in  just  round  its  sides  which  ate  away  the  grounds 
l>ehind  even  faster  than  over.  The  eminent  engineer,  pocketing 
his  cheque,  stroked  his  chin  once  more  in  placid  contentment, 


iam 


f,'.  E  ■ : 


nm 


224 


THIS  MORTAL   COIL. 


and  observed  with  the  complacency  of  a  scienHfic  looker-on : 
"Just  as  1  told  you.  It's  inipossil)le  to  calculate  the  exact 
effect  of  these  things  beforehand.  The  scour  will  do  more 
harm  than  the  sea  did.  We  have  the  satisfaction  of  knowiiif^;. 
however,  that  we've  done  our  duty.  Perhaps,  now,  the  safest 
tliinp  for  the  estate  would  be  to  turn  right  round  and  pull  it 
all  down  again." 

The  estate,  in  fact,  was  simply  doomed.  JEolian,  Pactolian, 
inrlecrl :  ah  me,  the  irony  of  it!  Those  iEolian  sands  were  over- 
whelming Wliitestrand.  The  poplar  had  formed  its  one  frail 
siippart.  In  destroying  the  poplar,  Hugh  had  simply  outwitted 
himself.  No  earthly  science  could  now  repair  that  fatal  step. 
Physicians  were  in  vain.  Engineers  and  breakwaters  were  of 
no  avail.  The  cruel  crawling  sea  had  begun  remorselessly  to 
claim  its  own,  and  day  after  day  it  claimed  it  piecemeal. 

^'or  was  that  all,  Hugh's  affairs  were  getting  more  and  more 
involved  in  other  ways  also.  Those  were  the  days  of  the 
decline  of  Squiredom.  Agricultural  depression  had  told  upon 
the  rents.  Turnips  were  a  failure.  Mangolds  were  feeble. 
Hessian  fly  had  made  waste  straw  of  old  Grimes's  wheat  crops. 
Barley  had  never  done  so  badly  for  years.  Foot-and-mouth 
disease  and  pleuro-pneumonia  had  combined  with  American 
competition  and  Australian  mutton  to  lower  prices  and  to 
starve  landlords.  Time  was,  indeed,  when  Hugh  would  have 
laughed  aloud  at  the  bare  idea  of  being  seriously  afl'ected  by 
the  fall  in  corn  or  taking  a  personal  interest  in  the  ridiculous 
details  of  the  diseases  of  cattle.  Such  loathsome  things  were 
the  business  of  the  veterinaries.  Now,  however,  he  laughed  on 
the  wrong  side  of  his  mouth  :  he  complained  bitterly  of  the 
supineness  of  government  in  not  stamping  out  the  germs  of 
rinderpest,  and  in  taking  so  little  care  of  the  soil  of  England. 
Buff  all  his  days  till  then,  by  political  conviction,  he  began  to 
go  over  to  tlie  Blues  out  of  sheer  chagrin.  He  doubted  the 
wisdom  of  free  trade,  and  coquetted  openly  with  the  local 
apostles  of  retributive  protection.  But  rents  came  in  worse  and 
worse  for  all  that,  at  each  successive  Whitestr.ind  audit.  The 
interest  on  the  mortgage  was  hard  to  raise,  and  the  servants' 
wages  at  the  Hall,  it  was  whispered  about,  had  fallen  into 
arrears  for  a  whole  quarter.  Clearly  the  young  IS<]uive  must  bo 
short  of  funds ;  and  nothing  was  afloat  to  help  his  exchequer 
into  safer  waters. 

But  drowning  men  cling  to  the  proverbial  straw.  For  his 
own  part,  Hugh  had  high  hopes  at  flrst  of  his  "  Life's  Philo- 
sophy." He  had  trimmed  his  little  bark  most  cunningly,  ho 
thought,  to  tempt  the  stormy  sea  of  popular  approbation. 
There  was  the  big  long  poena  for  heavy  ballast,  and  the  songs 
and  occasional  pieces  in  his  lightest  vein  for  cork  belts  to 


ON  TRIAL. 


225 


redress  the  balance.    Sooner  or  later,  the  world  must  surely 
catch  glimpses  of  the  truth,  that  it  still  enclosed  a  great 
unknown  Poetl    He  waited  for  the  storm  of  applause  to  begin ; 
the  critics  would  doubtless  soon  get  up  their  concerted  paean. 
But  one  day,  a  few  weeks  after  the  volume  was  published,  he 
took  up  a  copy  of  the  Bystander,  that  most  superior  review — 
tlie  special  organ  of  his  own  special  clique — and  read  in  it  with 
hushed  breath  ...  a  hostile  notice  of  his  new  and  hopeful 
volume.    His  heart  sank  as  he  read  and  read.    Line  after  line, 
the  sickening  sense  of  failure  deepened  upon  him.    It  had  not 
been  so  in  the  old  days.    Then,  the  critics  had  hasted  to  bring 
him  butter  in  a  lordly  dish.    But  now,  all  that  was  utterly 
changed.    He  read  with  a  cheek  flushed  with  indignation.    At 
last,  the  review  touched  bottom.    "  Mr.  Massinger,"  said  his 
critic  in  concluding  his  notice,  "  has  long  since  retired,  we  all 
know,  into  Lowther  Arcadia.    There,  among  the  mimic  ranges 
of  the  Suffolk  sandhills — a  doll's  paradise  of  dale  and  mountain 
— he  has  betaken  himself  with  his  pretty  little  pipe  to  the  green 
side  of  a  pretty  little  knoll,  and  has  tuned  his  throat  to  a  pretty 
little  lay,  all  about  a  series  of  pretty  little  ladies,  of  the  usual 
insipid  Lowther- Arcadian  style  of  beauty.    Now,  these  waxen- 
faced  damsels  somehow  fail  to  interest  us.     Their  cheeks  are 
all  most  becomingly  red  ;  tlieir  eyes  are  all  most  liquidly  blue ; 
their  locks  are  all  of  the  yellowest  tow;  and  their  philosophy  is 
a  cheap  and  ineffective  mixture  of  the  Elegant  Extracts  with 
the  choicest  old  crusted  English  morals  of  immemorial  pro- 
verbial wisdom.    In  short,  they  are  unfortunately  stuffed  with 
saudust.    The  long  poem  which  gives  a  title  to  the  volume, 
on  the  other  hand,  though  molluscoid  in  its  flabbiness,  is  as 
ambitious  as  it  is  feeble,  and  as  dull  as  it  is  involved.    Here, 
for  example,  selected  from  some  five  hundred  equally  inflated 
stanzas,  are  the  modest  views  Mr.  Massinger  now  holds  on  his 
own  position  in  the  material  Cosmos.    The  scene,  we  ought  to 
explain,  is  laid  in  Oxford :  the  time,  midnight  or  a  little  later : 
and  the  Bard  speaks  in projprid  jjersonas : — 

"  '  The  city  lies  below  me  •wrapped  in  slumber ; 

Mute  and  unmoved  in  all  her  streets  she  lies  : 
'Mid  rapid  thoughts  that  throng  me  without  number 

Flashes  the  pliantom  of  an  old  surmise. 
Her  hopes  and  fears  and  griefs  are  all  suspended : 

Ten  thousand  souls  throughout  her  precincts  take 
Sleep,  in  whose  bosom  life  and  death  are  blended, 

And  I  alone  awake. 

"  •  Am  I  alone  the  solitary  centre 

Of  all  the  seeming  universe  around, 
With  mocking  senses,  through  whose  portals  enter 
Unmeaning  phantasies  of  sight  and  sound  ? 


I 


:il 


'■  \  . 


f .    r 


•     t; 


SB 


I'tli 


■»':(S 


220  TEIS  MORTAL    COIL. 

Arc  all  the  countless  minds  wherewith  I  people 
The  emptj'  forms  that  float  before  my  eyes 

Vain  as  the  cloud  that  girds  the  distant  steeple 
With  snowy  canopies  ? 

*'  *  Yet  though  the  world  be  but  myself  unfolded— 

Soul  bent  again  on  soul  in  mystic  play — 
No  less  each  sense  and  thought  and  act  is  moulded 

By  dead  necessities  I  may  not  sway. 
Some  mightier  power  against  my  will  can  move  me; 

Some  potent  nothing  force  and  overawe : 
Though  I  be  all  that  is,  I  feel  above  me 

The  godhead  of  blind  law  1 ' 

*'  Seven  or  eight  pages  of  this  hysterical,  cartilaginous,  inver- 
lebrato  nonsense  have  failed  to  convince  iis  that  Mr.  Massinger 
is  really,  as  he  seems  implicitly  to  believe,  the  hub  of  the 
universe,  and  tlie  sole  intelligent  or  sentient  being  within  the 
entire  circle  of  organic  creation.  Many  other  poets,  indeed, 
have  thought  the  same,  but  few  have  been  so  candid  as  to 
express  their  opinion.  We  are  tempted,  therefore,  to  conclude 
our  notice  of  our  Bard's  singular  views  as  to  Mr.  Massinger's 
Place  in  Nature  with  a  small  apologue,  in  his  own  best  manner, 
which  we  will  venture  to  entitle — 

«» 'MARINE  PHILOSOPHY  IN  SILLY  SUFFOLK." 

*"A  jellyfish  swam  an  East  Anglian  sea, 
And  he  said,  "This  world,  it  consists  of  me. 
Tl\ere'8  nothing  above,  and  there's  notliing  below. 
That  a  jelh  fish  ever  can  jtossibly  know — 
Since  we've  got  no  sight  or  hearing  or  smell— 
Beyond  what  our  single  sense  can  tell. 
Now  all  we  can  learn  from  the  sense  of  touch 
Is  the  fact  of  our  feelings,  viewed  as  such ; 
But  to  think  they  have  any  external  cause 
Is  an  inference  clean  against  logical  laws. 
Again,  to  suppose,  as  I've  hitherto  done, 
There  are  other  jellyfish  under  the  sun 
Is  a  pure  assumption  that  can't  be  backed 
By  one  jot  of  proof  or  one  single  fact : 
And  being  a  bit  of  a  submarine  poet, 
I've  written  some  amateur  lines  to  show  it. 
In  fact  (like  Hume)  I  distinctly  doubt 
If  there's  anything  else  at  all  about : 
For  the  universe  simply  centres  in  n.e, 
And  if  I  were  not,  why  nothing  would  be !  " 

Just  then,  a  shark,  who  was  passing  by, 
Gobbled  him  down,  in  the  twink  of  an  eye : 
And  he  died,  with  a  few  convulsive  twists  : 
— But,  som^ihaw,  the  univerae  still  exists.'  '* 

Hugh  laid  down  t  le  Bystander  on  the  table  by  his  side  with  a 
burning  seuso  of  wrong  and  indignation.     The  measure  ho 


ON  TRIAL. 


227 


himself  had  often  meted  to  others,  therewithal  had  it  been 
meted  to  him ;  and  he  realized  now  in  his  own  person  the 
bitterness  of  the  stings  he  had  often  inflicted  out  of  pure 
wantonness  on  endless  young  and  anonymous  authors.  And 
how  unjust,  too,  this  sweeping  condemnation,  when  he  came  to 
think  of  his  splendid  "Ode  to  Manetho,"  his  touching  "Lines 
on  the  Death  of  a  Sky  Terrier,"  his  exquisitely  humonms 
*'  Song  of  Fee-faw-fum ! "  He  knew  they  were  good,  every  verse 
and  word  of  them.  This  was  a  crushing  review,  and  from  his 
own  familiar  friend  as  well ;  for  he  saw  at  once  from  that  un- 
mistakable style  that  it  was  Mitchison  who  had  penned  this 
cruel  criticism.  Chcyne  Eow  had  clearly  cast  off  her  recalci- 
trant son.  He  was  to  it  now  an  outcast  and  a  pariah,  a  wicked 
deserter  to  the  camp  of  the  Philistines. 

At  the  same  moment,  Winifred,  on  the  sofa  opposite,  coughing 
her  dry  little  cough  from  time  to  time,  was  flushing  painfully  over 
Fome  funny  passage  or  other  she  was  reading  with  much  gusfo 
in  the  Charing  Cross  Review.  They  seldom  spoke  unnecessarily 
to  one  another  nowadays.  They  were  leading  a  life  of  mutual 
avoidance,  as  far  as  possible,  communicating  only  on  strictly 
practical  topics,  when  occasion  demanded,  and  not  even  then  in 
the  most  amicable  spirit.  But  just  at  that  moment,  Winifred's 
flushed  face  ftlled  Hugh  with  intense  and  profound  suspicion. 
What  could  she  be  reading  that  made  her  blush  so '? 

"  Let  me  see  it,"  ho  cried,  as  Winifred  tried  to  smuggle  away 
the  paper  unseen  under  a  pile  of  magazines. 

"  No,  no !  There's  nothing  in  it ! "  Winifred  answered 
nervously. 

"  I  must  see,"  Hugh  went  on,  and  snatched  it  from  her  hand. 
Winifred  fougiit  hanl  to  tear  it  or  to  destroy  it.  But  Hugh 
was  too  strong  for  her.  He  caught  it  and  opened  it.  A  single 
phrase  on  a  torn  page  caught  his  eye  as  he  did  so.  "  Verses 
addressed  to  Mr.  Massinger  of  Whitestrand  Hall,  formerly  a 
l>()et."  He  glanced  at  the  end.  They  were  signed  "  A.  H." — It 
was  Arthur  Hatherley. 

Bohemia  had  declared  open  war  upon  him.  He  paw  why. 
Those  tell-tale  words,  "  Of  Whitestrand  Hall,"  struck  the  key- 
note of  its  virtuous  indignation.  And  that  fellow  lielf,  too,  had 
poi.soned  the  mind  of  Cheyne  Row  against  him  Henceforth,  he 
might  expect  no  quarter  thence.  His  own  familiar  friends 
had  turned  to  rend  him.  No  more  could  he  hope  to  roll  tho 
cheerful  log.  His  dream  of  literary  glory  was  gone— clean 
gone — vanished  for  ever. 

Winifred  had  lifted  the  paper  which  Hugh  flung  from  him, 
and  was  skimming  the  Bystander  review  meanwhile.  Her  cheek 
flushed  hotter  and  redder  still.  But  she  said  never  a  word  in 
any  way  about  it.    She  wouldn't  seem  to  have  noticed  tho 


i  r 


'•  I  t> 


223 


THIS  MORTAL   COIL. 


w 


\  t 


attack.    "Shall  I  accept  Lady  Mortmayne's  invitation?"  she 
asked  with  a  chilly  heartsinking. 

Bohemia  had  clearly  turned  against  them;  but  Pliilistia  at 
least,  Philistia  was  left  to  console  their  bosoms.  If  one  can't 
be  a  poet,  one  can  at  any  rate  be  a  snob.  In  the  bitterness  of 
his  heart,  Hugh  answered:  "  Yes.  Go  anywhere  on  earth  to  a 
body  with  a  handle."  Then  he  tried  to  rouse  himself,  to  put 
on  a  cheerful  and  unconcerned  manner.  "  I  like  to  patronize 
art,"  he  went  on  with  a  hard  smile, "  and  as  a  work  of  art  I 
consider  Lndy  Mortmayne  almost  perfect." 

Winifred  laid  down  her  paper  on  the  table.  "  What  shall  I 
sny  to  her  ? "  she  asked  glassily.  She  was  a  timid  letter- 
writer.  Even  since  their  estrangement,  Hugh  most  often 
dictated  her  society  notes  for  her. 

**  Dear  Lady  Mortmayne,  we  shall  have  great  pleasure " 

Hugh  began  with  vigour. 

*' Isn't  'we  have  great  pleasure'  better  English,  Hugh?" 
Winifred  asked  quietly,  as  she  examined  her  nib  with  close 
attention. 

"No,"  Hugh  blurted  back,  "certainly  not.  Shall  have 
great  pleasure's  quite  good  enough  for  me,  so  I  suppose  it's  good 
enough  for  you  too — isn't  it  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  about  that.  Literary  English  and  society 
English  are  two  distinct  dialects." 

Hugh  bit  his  lip  with  an  angry  look.  He  was  getting 
positively  cruel  now.  **  If  you  can  write  so  well,"  he  muttered 
between  his  clenched  teeth,  "  write  it  yourself.  '  Great  pleasure 
in  accepting  your  kind  invitation  for  Thursday  next.' " 

"Doesn't  'Thursday  the  17th  '  sound  rather  morefonnal?" 
Winifred  asked  once  more,  looking  up  from  her  paper. 

"Of  course  it  does.  That's  just  my  reason  for  carefully 
avoiding  it.  Why  on  earth  should  you  go  out  of  your  way  to 
be  so  precious  formal?  Thursday  next's  what  everybody  says 
in  conversation.  Write  exactly  as  you  always  speak.  Formal, 
indeed !    Such  absurd  rubbish  with  a  next-door  neighbour ! " 

"  But  she  writes,  '  Lady  Mortmayne  requests  the  pleasure.' 
I  think  I  ought  to  answer  her  in  the  third  person." 

"  That's  because  she  was  sending  out  ever  so  many  invitations 
at  once,  all  exactly  alike.  'Lady  Mortmayne  requests  the 
bother — I  mean  the  pleasure — of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  So-and-so's 
company.'  It's  different  when  you're  answering  people  you 
know  intimately.  You  needn't  be  absolutely  wooden  then. 
Besides,  you've  got  to  make  that  long  explanation  about  those 
dahlia  roots  you  remember  you  promised  her.  Ko  literary  man 
in  all  England  would  trust  himself  to  write  so  complicated  a 
letter  as  the  dahlia  roots  must  make,  in  the  third  person.  Our 
language  i'l't  adapted  to  it;  it  can't  be  done.    But  fools  rush 


ON  TRIAL. 


229 


»> 


in  where  angels  fear  to  tread,  we  all  know  perfectly.  Write  it, 
if  you  choose,  in  the  third  person." 

"  I  Vhink  I  will.  I'll  begin  al  1  over  again.  Thanlcs  very  mnch 
for  calling  me  a  fool.  I  won't  return  the  compliment  and  call  you 
aii  angel.    'Mr.  and  Mrs.  Massinger  have  great  pleasure "* 

"  Will  have  great  pleasure ! " 

"  Have  great  pleasure.  I  prefer  it  so,  thank  you.  It's  better 
English.  '  Have  great  pleasure  in  accepting  Lady  Mortmayne's 
kind  invitation  for  Thursday  the  17th,  and  will  bring  the  dahlias 
she  promised ' " 

"  Who  promised  ?    Lady  Mortmayne  ?  " 

"  Oh,  bother  !  I  mean  '  the  dahlias  Mrs.  Massinger  promised, 
which  she  would  have  brought  before,  but  she  was  unfortunately 
prevented  by  her  gardener  having  quite  inadvertently '" 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,  split  it  up  into  short  sentences,"  Hugh 
cried,  on  tenter-hooks.  *'  I  couldn't  let  such  a  note  as  that  go 
out  of  my  house— I  mean,  our  house,  Winifred — if  my  life 
depended  upon  it.  A  man  of  letters  allow  his  wife  to  make 
such  an  exhibition  of  impossible  English  1  I  won't  dictate  to 
you  in  the  third  person — the  thing's  impossible :  I'll  be  no 
party  to  murdering  our  mother  tongue — but  you  might  at  least 
say,  'Mrs.  Massinger  will  at  the  "ame  time  bring  the  dahlias  she 
promised  Lady  Mortmayne.  T.iey  would  have  been  sent  before' 
— and  so  forth,  and  so  forth,  in  logical  clauses.  My  English 
style  may  not  perhaps  suit  the  exalted  standard  of  our  friends 
in  the  Bystander.,  but  I  can  at  least  avoid  running  a  whole  letter 
into  one  long  tortuous  snake-like  v'^entence.  I  never  lose  myself 
in  the  sands  of  rhetoric.  My  English  will  parse,  if  it  won't 
construe." 

"  I  wish  I  was  clever,"  Winifred  said,  growing  red,  "and  then 
I  could  write  my  OAvn  letters  without  you." 

"'Be  good,  my  child,  and  let  who  will  be  clever:'  Charhs 
Ki-r-  jley,"  Hugh  quoted  provokiiigly.  "  '  An  honest  man's  the 
noblest  work  of  God  : '  Alexandta-  Pope.  (I  think  it  was  Po{io : 
or  was  it  Sam  Johnson  ?)  A  placid  woman  runs  him  close,  ecod  : 
Hugh  Massinger.  Ecod's  a  powerful  weak  rhyme,  I  admit,  but 
what  can  you  expect  from  a  mere  impron)ptu  ?  I  only  wish  all 
women  were  placid.  Well,  the  moral  of  these  three  immortal 
lines,  selected  from  the  works  of  three  poets  in  three  diiferent 
ages  born  (Dryden),  is  simply  this — you  do  very  well  as  you  are, 
Winifred.  Don't  seek  to  be  clever.  It  doesn't  suit  you.  Take 
my  advice.  Leave  it  alone. — For  if  you  do,  you'll  find  it  in  the 
end  a  complete  failure." 

'•  Hugh !     You  insult  me." 

"  Very  well  then,  my  dear.  You  will  be  able  to  exercise 
Christian  patience  and  resignation  in  pocketing  the  insult — as  I 
have  to  do  from  you  very  often." 


230 


Til  18  MORTAL   COIL. 


*■':  'I  V 


Winifred  shut  down  hor  writing-c.ise  with  a  bang  and  burst, 
not  into  tears,  but  into  an  uncontrollable  tit  of  violent  couching. 
She  coughed  and  coughed  till  her  face  was  purple  and  livid  with 
the  effort.  Hugh  watched  her  silently,  as  liard  as  adamant. 
She  had  often  coughed  this  way  of  late.  The  habit  was  growing 
on  her.    Hugh  thought  she  ought  to  cure  herself  of  it. 

"  I  shall  go  up  next  week  again  to  consult  Sir  Anthony 
Wraxall,"  she  said  at  last,  when  she  recovered  her  breath,  gasp- 
ing and  choking.    "  Will  you  go  with  me,  Hugh  ?  '* 

"  We've  no  cash  now  to  waste  on  junketing  and  gadding  about 
in  town,"  Hugh  answered  gloomily.  "A  pretty  time  to  talk 
about  riotous  living,  with  the  servants'  wages  all  overdue,  and 
duns  bothering  at  the  door  for  their  wretched  money.  My 
presence  could  hardly  give  you  any  appreciable  pleasure.  You 
can  stop  at  the  dingy  old  lodgings  in  Albert  Eow,  and  Mrs. 
Bouverie  Barton  will  help  gad  about  with  you.  You  can  trapes 
together  over  half  London." 

Winifred  bowed  her  poor  head  down  in  silence.  Her  heart 
was  sick.  It  was  full  to  bursting.  This  was  all  she  had  bought 
with  the  fee-simple  of  Whitest  rand. 

That  moment  the  servant  came  in  with  a  paper  on  a  tray. 
"  What  is  it?  "  Hugh  asked,  glancing  listlessly  towards  it. 

"  It's  the  Queen's  taxes,  sir,"  the  maid  answered  :  the  financial 
crisis  had  long  since  compelled  them  to  discharge  their  last 
surviving  footman. 

"Tell  the  Queen  she  must  call  again,"  Hugh  burst  out 
savagely.  "  She  can't  have  them.  She  may  whistle  for  her 
money.— Queen's  taxes  indeed !  The  butcher  and  the  baker'll 
be  calling  to  get  their  bills  paid  next!  But  they  won't  suc- 
ceed ;  that's  one  comfort.  You  can't  get  blood  out  of  a  stone, 
thank  goodness." 


CHAPTEE  XXXIII. 


AN  ABTISTIO  EVENT. 


"Mr.  Wabren  I?elf,"  said  the  daintily  etched  invitation  card, 
"  requests  the  pleasure  of  a  visit  from  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bouverie 
Barton  and  friends  to  a  Private  View  of  his  Paintings  and 
Water-colour  Sketches,  on  Saturday,  October  the  8rd,  from  2.30 
to  6  P.M.,  at  128,  Bletchingley  Eoad,  South  Kensington." 

Such  a  graceful  little  invitation  card  never  was  seen,  neatly 
designed  by  the  artist  himself,  with  a  bold  flight  of  sea-gulls 
engaged  in  winging  their  way  across  the  upper  left-hand  corner ; 
and  a  elrelch  of  stormy  waves  bestridden  by  a  fishing-smack  in 


AN  ABTISTIG  EVENT. 


231 


2.30 


full  career  before  the  brisk  breeze  occupying  the  larger  part 
of  its  broad  face  in  very  delicate  and  exquisite  outline.  When 
Winifred  Massinger  saw  it  carelessly  stuck  aside  among  a  heap 
of  others  on  Mrs.  Bouverie  Barton's  opcasional  table  in  South 
Audley  Street,  she  took  it  up  with  a  start  and  examined  it 
closely.  "Mr.  Warren  Relf!"  she  cried,  in  a  tone  of  some 
surprise.  "Then  you  know  him,  Mrs.  Barton?  I  didn't  re- 
member he  was  one  of  your  circle.  But  there,  of  course  you 
know  everybody. — What  a  sweet  little  etching  I " 

"  What  V  Mr.  Warren  Relf  V— Oh  yes,  I  know  him.  Not,  I'm 
afraid,  a  very  successful  artist, as  yet;  but  they  say  he  has  merit 
— in  his  own  way,  merit.  And  he's  rising  now;  a  coming 
man,  I'm  told,  in  his  special  line.  Mr.  Mitchiscn  thinks  his 
delicacy  of  touch  and  purity  of  colour  are  something  really  quite 
remarkable.  I'm  going  to  see  these  new  pictures  of  his  on 
Saturday,  if  I  can  sandwich  him  in  edgeways  between  the 
Society  for  the  Higher  Education  of  Women  and  the  Richtcr 
concert  or  tea  at  the  MacKinnons'.  I've  only  five  engagements 
for  Saturday.  Quite  an  empty  day. — Have  you  got  a  card  for 
the  private  view  yourself,  dear?" 

"  No,"  Winifred  answered  with  a  slight  blush.  "  My  husband 
knew  Mr.  Relf  quite  intimately  once  upon  a  time ;  but  the  fact 
is,  somehow,  since  our  marriage,  a  coolness  seems  to  have  sprung 
up  between  them — I  don't  know  why ;  perhaps  from  the  ordinary 
human  perversity.  At  any  rate,  Hugh  won't  even  so  much  as 
see  him  now.  Mr.  Relf's  been  yachting  down  our  way  the  last 
two  or  three  summers,  and  Hugh  positively  wouldn't  let  mo  ask 
him  in  to  have  a  cup  of  afternoon  tea  with  us  in  the  garden  at 
Whitestrand. — But  1  should  like  to  see  his  new  pictures  im- 
mensely.— I  used  to  think  his  pieces  awfully  funny,  I  remember, 
and  quite  meaningless,  in  the  old  days,  down  in  dear  old  Suffolk ; 
but  Mr.  Hatherley  tells  me  that  was  only  my  unregenerate 
nature,  and  that  they're  really  beautiful — a  groat  deal  too  good 
for  me.  He  considers  Mr.  Relf  a  very  great  painter,  and  has 
wonderful  hopes  about  his  artistic  future.  I  wish  I  could  find 
out  what  I  thought  of  them  nowadays,  after  my  taste's  been 
educated  and  turned  top<y-turvy  by  contact  with  so  much 
cesthetic  society." 

"Well,  then,  would  you  like  to  go  with  us,  dear?"  Mrs. 
Bouverie  Barton  asked  kindly. 

Winifred  turned  over  the  card  with  a  wistful  look.  "  It  says, 
*  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bouverie  Barton  and  friends,' "  she  repeated  with 
cmi^hasis.  "  So  of  course  you  can  take  whoever  you  like  with 
you,  can't  you,  Mrs.  Barton  ? — Saturday  the  3rd,  from  2.30  to  6 
P.M. — I  think  1  might. — I'll  risk  it  anyhow. — That'd  suit  mo 
admirably.  My  appointment  with  Sir  Anthony's  for  two 
precisely.'' 


i"  -i 


232 


THIS  MORTAL   COIL. 


"  Your  appoi'ntmont  with  Sir  Anthony  ?  "  Mrs.  Barton  echoed 
in  a  grieved  undertone. 

Winifred  coughed— such  a  nasty  dry  little  hackinj?  cough. 
"  Why,  yes,  Sir  Anthony  Wraxtill,"  she  answered,  cheokini?  her- 
self with  some  difficulty  from  a  brief  paroxysm  of  her  usual 
trouble.  "  I've  come  up  this  week,  in  fact,  on  purpose  to  consult 
hiin.  Hugh  made  mo  come,  my  lungs  have  been  so  awfully  odd 
lately.  I've  seen  Sir  Anthony  twice  already ;  and  he's  punched 
me  and  pummelled  me  and  pulled  me  about  till  there's  not  raucli 
left  of  me  whole  anywhere ;  so  on  Saturday  ho  means  by  sum- 
mary process  to  get  rid  of  the  rest  of  me  altogether.  Would 
you  mind  calling  for  me  at  Sir  Anthony's  at  three  sharp?  Ifo 
gives  me  an  hour,  a  whole  hour;  an  unusual  concession  for  a 
man  whose  time's  money — worth  a  golden  guinea  every  three 
minutes." 

"  My  dear,"  Mrs.  Bouverie  Barton  put  in  tenderly — everybody 
knows  Mrs.  Bouverie  Burton,  the  most  charming  and  sympa- 
thetic hostess  in  literary  London — "  you  hardly  seem  fit  to  go 
running  about  town  sight-seeing  at  present. — Does  Mr.  Massinger 
seriously  realize  how  extremely  weak  and  ill  you  are? — It  scarcely 
peenis  to  me  you  ought  to  he  troubling  your  poor  little  head 
about  private  views  or  anything  of  the  sort  with  a  cough  like 
that  upon  you." 

*'  Oh,  it  isn't  much,  I  assure  you,  dear  Mrs.  Barton,"  Winifred 
answered  with  a  quiet  sigh,  the  tears  coming  up  into  her  eyes 
as  she  spoke  at  the  touch  of  sympathy.  "  Hugh  doesn't  think 
it's  at  all  serious.  I've  been  a  good  deal  troubled  and  worried 
of  late,  that's  all. — Sir  Anthony'll  set  me  all  right  soon. — You 
see  I've  had  a  great  deal  of  trouble."  The  tears  stood  brimming 
her  poor  dim  eyes.  Wife  and  mother  as  she  had  been  already, 
she  was  still  young,  very,  very  young.  Her  lace  looked  pale  and 
sadly  pathetic. 

Mrs.  Bouverie  Barton  raised  the  small  white  hand  gently  in 
her  own.  It  was  thin  and  delicate,  with  long  and  slender  con- 
sumptive fingers.  Mrs.  Barton's  mouth  grew  graver  for  a 
moment.  That  poor  child  had  suffered  much,  she  thought  to 
herself,  and  she  had  probably  much  to  sufier  in  future.  How 
much,  indeed,  it  was  not  in  Winified's  cramped  little  nature 
to  confide  to  any  one. 

At  128,  Bletchingley  Boad,  the  ancestral  home  of  all  the  Eelfs 
— for  one  generation — a  tiny  eight-roomed  London  house  in  a 
side-street  of  intense  South  Kensington— all  was  bustle  and 
flutter  and  feverish  excitement.  Edie  Keif  to-day  was  absolutely 
in  her  element.  It  was  her  joy  in  life,  indeed,  to  compass  the 
Impossible.  And  the  Impossible  now  stared  her  frankly  in  the 
face  in  the  concrete  shape  of  a  geometrical  absurdity.    She  had 


AN  ARTISTIC  EVENT. 


233 


iindcrtiikon  to  make  the  leiss  contnin  the  greater,  all  tlio  axioms 
of  Euclid  to  the  contrary  notwithstr  ding.  What  are  space  and 
timo  to  a  clover  woman  ?  Of  no  move  importance  in  her  scheme 
of  things  than  to  Emmannel  Kant  or  -to  Shad  worth  Hodgson. 
The  Relfs  had  issued  no  fewer  than  three  hundred  and  twenty 
separate  invitation  cards,  each  with  that  extensible  india-rubber 
clause,  "and  friends,"  so  capable  of  indetinite  and  incalculable 
expansion.  Now,  the  little  front  drawing-room  at  Bletchingley 
lioad  could  just  be  induced,  when  the  furniture  was  abolished 
by  Act  of  Parliament,  and  the  piano  removed  upstiiirs  to  tlie 
back  bedroom,  to  accommodate  at  a  pinch  some  tiiirty-five 
persons,  mostly  chairless.  Three  hundred  and  twenty  invited 
guests,  plus  an  indefinite  expansion  under  the  casual  category  of 
desultory  friends,  cannot  be  reduced  by  any  known  process  of 
arithmetic  or  mensuration  into  the  limits  of  a  space  barely 
sufficient  to  supply  standing-room  for  thirty-five.  But  that  was 
just  where  Edio  Keifs  organizing  genius  knew  itself  in  the 
presence  of  an  emergency  worthy  of  its  steel.  "When  an  in- 
soluble difficulty  dawned  serene  upon  her  puzzled  view,  Edie 
Eelfs  spirits  rose  at  once,  Anta^us-like,  to  the  occasion,  and 
soared  beyond  the  narrow  and  hampering  limitations  of 
mundane  geometry.  "My  dear  Edie,"  Mrs.  Eelf  cried  in  a 
voice  of  despair,  "  we  can  never,  never,  never  pack  them  in 
anyhow." 

"  Herrings  in  a  box  would  find  themselves  comparatively 
roomy  and  comfortable,"  Warren  murmured,  with  a  glance  of 
l)lack  despondency  round  the  four  scanty  walls  of  the  tiny 
drawing-room.  "How  on  earth  could  you  ever  think  of 
asking  so  many?" 

"  Nonsense,  my  dears ! "  Edie  answered  with  a  confident  smile 
that  presaged  victory.  "Leave  that  to  mo.  It's  niy  proper 
business.  I  see  it  all.  The  commanding  officer  should  never 
be  hampered  by  futile  predictions  of  defeat  and  dishonour. 
Of  course  they  won't  come,  the  greater  part  of  them.  They 
never  do  rush,  I  regret  to  say,  to  insj)ect  your  immortal  works, 
Warren.  But  still  we  must  arrange,  for  all  that,  as  if  we 
expected  the  whole  united  British  people — in  case  of  a  rush, 
(iou't  you  know,  mother.  Some  day,  I  feel  certain  the  rush  will 
arrive;  a  imke  will  invest  his  spare  cash  in  'Off  the  Nore; 
Morning,'  and  hang  it  up  visibly  to  all  beholders  on  the  silver- 
gilt  walls  of  his  own  dining-room.  The  picture-buying  classes, 
with  rolls  of  money  jingling  and  clinking  in  their  trousers* 
pockets,  will  see  and  admire  that  magnificent  chf-d'ceuvre— or 
at  least,  if  they  don't  know  how  to  admire,  will  determine 
to  back  a  Duke's  judgment — and  will  hurry  down  in  their 
millions,  with  blank  cheque-books  protruding  from  their  flaps, 
to  crowd  the  studio  and  buy  up  the  lot  at  a  valuation.    I  con- 


V 


t  i  i 


il 


234 


THIS  MORTAL  COIL. 


fcss  even  I  nh(mM  liave  somo  difBculty  in  scafingand  providing 
tea  for  the  uiillionR.  But.  this  lot's  easy — a  mere  bagatelle. 
Let  mo  see.  We've  only  sent  out  cards,  I  tliink,  for  a  poor 
trifle  of  throe  hundred  and  twenty." 

"  No,"  Warren  corrected  very  gravely.  "  Three  hundred 
and  twenty  curds,  jou  mean,  for  six  hundred  and  forty  wives 
and  husbands." 

"  Some  of  them  are  bachelors,  my  dear,"  Edio  answered  with 
a  sagacious  nod;  "and  somo  old  maids,  who  never  by  any 
chance  buy  anything.  As  far  as  art's  concerned,  the  old  maid 
may  be  regarded  as  a  mere  cipher.  But,  for  argument's  sake, 
since  you  want  to  argufy,  like  the  parson  in  the  Black  Country, 
we'll  say  six  hundred.  Now,  what's  six  hundred  human  beings 
in  a  house  like  this— a  mansion — a  palace — a  perfect  Vatican — 
distributed  over  nearly  four  hours,  and  equally  diffused 
throughout  the  entire  establishment  ?  Of  course,  my  dear,  you 
at  once  apply  the  doctrine  of  averages.  That's  scientific.  Each 
party  stops  not  longer  than  an  hour  at  the  very  outside.  You 
never  have  two  hundred  in  the  place  at  once.  And  what's  two 
Imndred?  A  mere  trifle!  I  declare  it  affords  no  scope  at  ail 
for  a  girl's  ingenuity.  Like  our  respected  ancestor,  Warren 
Hastings,  I  stand  aghast  at  my  own  moderation.— I  really  wish, 
mother,  now  1  coiuo  to  think  of  it,  we'd  sent  out  invitations  for 
a  thousand." 

"Six  hundred's  quite  enough  for  mo,  I'm  sure,"  Wavrcu 
replied,  glancing  round  the  room  once  more  in  palpable  doubt. 
"  flow  do  you  mean  to  ariange  for  them,  Edie ? " 

"  Oh,  easy  enough.  Nothing  could  be  simpler.  I'll  tell  you 
how.  First  of  all,  you  throw  open  the  folding-doors — or  rather, 
to  save  the  room  at  the  sides,  you  lift  them  bodily  off  their 
hinges,  and  stick  them  out  of  the  dining-room  window  into  tho 
back  garden." 

"  They  won't  go  through,"  Warren  objected,  measuring  with 
his  eye. 

"Eubbish,  my  dear!  Won't  go  through,  indeed!  You  men 
have  no  imagination  and  no  invention.  You  manufacture 
difficulties  out  of  pure  obstructiveness.  If  they  won't  go 
through  whole,  why,  just  take  out  the  panels  and  unglue  tiio 
wood-work,  that's  all. — Very  well,  then ;  that  throws  the  draw- 
ing-room and  dining-room  into  one  good  big  reception-room, 
from  which  of  course  we  remove  all  the  furniture.  Next,  we 
range  the  chairs  in  a  long  row  round  the  sides  for  the  old  ladies 
— the  old  ladies  are  very  important;  keep  'em  downstairs,  or 
else  they'll  prevent  their  husbands  from  buying — and  let  the 
men  and  the  able-bodied  girls  stand  up  and  group  themselves 
in  picturesque  clusters  here  and  there  about  the  vacant  centre. 
What  could  be  easier,  simpler,  or  more  effective?    A  room 


III 

1i 


AN  ARTISTIC  EVENT. 


235 


trcfit((l  HO  furnislifs  ifpolf  automatically  with  human  properties. 
NVith  tact  and  euro,  wo  could  easily  Bqueozo  in  Bomo  beveuty  or 
oighty." 

♦'  Wo  could,"  VVnrren  nnswcrcrl,  after  a  mental  calculation  of 
square  area.— "But  how  about  the  pictures r*" 

"Hear  hira,  mother!  Oii,  but  men  are  helpless!  Where 
Bhould  the  pictures  bo  but  up  in  tho  studio,  stupid  1  Wo 
wouldn't  take  all  the  pi  oplo  up  to  seo  them  at  onco,  of  course. 
You  and  I  would  go  around,  lookiii}^  very  alfablo,  with  a  pro- 
fessional smilo — so,  you  know — perpetually  playing  al)Out  tho 
corners  of  our  mouths,  and  carry  oft'  tho  men  with  tho  most 
purchasing  faces  in  constant  relays  up  to  admire  the  immortal 
master-pieces.  Meanwhile,  mother  and  Mr.  Hathorley,  down 
below  here,  would  do  the  polite  to  tho  old  ladies  and  undertake 
tho  deportment  business.  Or  perhaps  Mr.  Ilatherloy'd  better  be 
stationed  on  guard  upstairs,  to  tiro  ofif  t^omo  of  his  gushing 
critical  remarks  from  time  to  time  about  tho  aerial  porspeetivo 
and  tho  middle  distances.  Mr.  Hatherley  always  knows  jus; 
what  to  say  to  weigh  down  the  balance  lor  a  hesitating  pur- 
chaser." 

"Edio,"  Warren  cried,  flinging  himself  down  with  a  dis- 
gusted face  upon  the  dining-room  sola,  "  T  hate  all  this  horrid 
advertising  and  touting,  lor  all  the  wiuitl  as  if  one  were  tho 
catchpenny  proprietor  of  a  patent  medicine,  instead  of  an 
honest  hard-working  British  artist!" 

"  I  know  you  do,  my  dear  boy,"  Edie  answered  imperturb- 
ably ;  "  j,nd  that's  all  tho  more  reason  why  those  who  liavo  tlio 
charge  of  you  should  undertake  to  push  you  and  tout  for  you 
against, your  will,  till  they  positively  make  you  achieve  the 
success  you  yourself  will  never  have  the  nit  anness  to  try  for. — 
But,  thank  goodness,  /  don't  mind  piithiig.  I'm  intriguer 
enough  myself  for  the  whole  family.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  my 
egging  you  on,  and  pestering  you  and  bullying  you  and  keeping 
you  up  to  it,  we  should  never  have  got  up  this  private  view  o* 
your  things  at  all. — And  now,  having  started  and  arranged  tho 
entire  show,  I  mean  to  work  it  my  own  way  without  interfer- 
ence. I'm  the  boss  who  runs  this  concern,  I  can  tell  you, 
Warren.  Decidedly,  Mr.  Hatherley  shall  stop  upstairs,  with 
his  hair  down  his  back,  and  deliver  wild  panegyrics  in  an 
ecstatic  voice  on  the  aerial  perspective  and  the  midille  distances. 
— 1  shall  nudge  him  when  a  probable  purchaser  comes  in,  to 
make  him  turn  on  tho  aerial  perspective. — I  only  wish  with 
all  my  heart  wo  had  dear  old  Elsie  over  here  to  help  us," 

"  But  the  tea,  Edie  ?  How  about  the  tea,  dear  ?  "  Mrs.  Eelf 
interposed  with  a  doubtful  countenanca 

"  And  you  too,  Brutus ! "  her  daughter  cried,  looking  down 
on  her  with  a  dcsp,)nden.t  shake  of  tho  head,  which  implied  a 


te'i 


^'l:'. 


236 


THIS  MORTAL  COIL. 


\  5 


I    5 


profound  and  melancholy  shock  of  disappointment.  "  I  thought, 
mother,  I'd  brought  you  up  better  than  that: — The  tea,  my 
beloved,  will  be  duly  laid  out  in  your  own  bedroom,  which  I 
mean  to  transform,  for  this  occasion  only,  with  entirely  new 
eccnery,  dceorationa,  and  properties  throughout,  into  a  gor- 
geously furnished  oriental  lounge  and  enchanted  coffee  divan. 
There,  Martha,  attired  as  a  Circassian  slave — or  at  I'aast  in  her 
best  bib  and  tucker — shall  serve  out  ices,  sherbet,  ai:d  spiced 
dainties  every  one  from  silken  Samarcand  to  cedared  Lebanon. 
The  door  into  my  own  bedroom  will  also  be  open,  and  in  that 
spacious  apartment  we  shall  have  a  sort  of  grand  supplementary 
tea  and  refreshment  room,  where  the  Jacksons'  parloar-maid, 
borrowed  for  the  occasion,  as  Circassian  numl)er  two,  and 
becomingly  endued  in  a  Liberty  apron  and  a  small  red  cap 
(price  niuepence),  shall  dispense  claret-cup,  sponge-cake,  and 
liamburg  grapes  to  the  deserving  persons  who  have  earned 
their  restoratives  by  the  encouragement  of  art  through  a 
judicious  purchase.  The  thing's  as  easy  as  ABC.  I've  not  the 
least  doubt  it'll  run  me  off  my  lege.  I  shall  perish  in  the 
attempt — but  I  shall  die  victorious." 

"In  your  own  bedroom,  dear!"  ]\rrs.  Eelf  cried  pghast. 
"You'll  have  the  tea  in  your  own  bedroom!  But  where  on 
earth  shall  we  sleep,  Edie  ?  " 

Edie  looked  down  at  her  once  more  with  e.  solemn  glaace  of 
high  disdain.  "  Sleep ! "  she  cried.  "  Did  you  say  sleep, 
mother?  The  craven  wretcli  who  dreams  of  sleeping  at  such 
a  crises  is  unworthy  of  being  Warren  Relt's  progenitor. — Or 
ought  it  to  bo  progenitrix  in  the  feminine,  1  wonder? — We 
shall  sleep,  if  at  all,  my  dear  (which  I  greatly  doubt),  on  the 
floor  in  the  box-room,  already  occupied  by  the  iron  legs  of  the 
three  best  bedsteads. — But  don't  be  afraid.  Leave  it  oil  to  me, 
darling.  Trust  your  daughter;  and  your  daughter,  as  usual, 
will  pull  you  through.  If  there's  anything  on  earth  I  love,  it's. 
a  jolly  good  muddle. ' 

And  jolly  as  the  muddle  undoubtedly  was,  Edie  Relf  did  pull 
them  through  in  the  end  with  triumphant  strategy.  Saturday 
the  3rd  was  a  brilliant  success.  Bletchingley  head,  that  mere 
suburban  byway,  had  never  before  in  its  checkered  career 
beheld  so  many  real  live  carriages  together.  The  six  hurdred, 
or  at  least  a  very  fair  proportion  of  them,  boldly  they  drove  and 
well,  down  that  narrow  side  street.  All  the  world  wondered. 
The  neighbours  looked  on  and  admired  with  vicarious  pride. 
Thoy  felt  themselves  raised  in  the  social  scab  by  their  close 
proximity  to  so  fashionable  a  gathering.  Number  128  itself 
was  a  changed  character;  it  hardly  knew  its  own  ground-plan. 
In  the  drawing-room  and  dining-room,  thrown  wide  into  one,  a 
goodly  collection  of  artists  a;id  picture-buyers  ami  that  poor 


AN  ARTISTIC  EVENT. 


237 


ipull 


career 
cdred, 
e  and 
dered. 
pride, 
close 
itself 
l-plan. 
oue,  a 
b  poor 


residunnQ  the  peneral  public,  streamed  through  incessantly  in  a 
constant  tide  on  its  way  to  the  studio.  The  tearor>m  (late  Mrs. 
Keif's  bedroom)  blazed  out  resplendent  in  borrowed  plumes — 
oriental  rugs,  Japanese  fans,  nnd  hanging  parasols,  arranged  h 
la  Liberty.  Eout  seats  covered  with  eastern  stuffs  lined  the 
walls  and  passages.  The  studio,  in  particular,  proudly  posed 
as  a  work  of  art  of  truly  Whistleresque  magnificence.  Talk 
about  tone !  The  effect  was  unique.  Warren  Keif  himself,  who 
for  three  nights  previously  had  "  had  a  bed  out "  at  the  lodgings^ 
next  door,  and  swallowed  down  a  hasty  chop  for  luncheon  at 
the  Cheyne  Eow  Club,  had  superintended  in  person  the  hanging 
of  the  woncierful  sage-green  cretonne  and  the  pale  maize  silk 
that  so  admirably  threw  up  the  dainty  colours  of  his  delicate 
and  fantastic  sea-pieces.  Elsewhere,  Edie  alone  had  reigned 
Ripreine.  And  as  two  of  the  clock  chimed  from  Kensington 
cliurch  tower  on  that  eventful  afternoon,  she  murmured  aside 
to  her  mother,  with  an  enraptured  gaze  at  the  scarlet  and  green 
kakemonos  on  the  wall  of  the  staircase :  "  My  dear,  there's  not  a 
speck  of  dust  in  this  house,  nor  a  bone  in  my  body  that  isn't 
aching." 

Wlien  the  hired  man  from  the  mews  behind  flung  oj)en  the 
drawing-room  door  in  his  lordly  way  and  announced  in  a  very 
loud  voice,  "  Mrs.  Bouverie  Barton  and  Mrs.  Hugh  Massinger," 
neither  Warren  nor  Edie  was  in  the  front  room  to  hear  the 
startling  announcement,  which  would  certainly  for  the  moment 
have  taken  their  breath  away.  For  communications  between 
the  houses  of  Keif  and  Mr  .  higer  had  longed  since  ceased.  But 
Warren  and  Edie  wei^  both  upstairs.  So  Winifred  and  her 
hostess  passed  idly  in  (just  shaking  hands  by  the  doorway  with 
good  old  Mrs.  Relf,  who  never  by  any  chance  caught  anybody's 
name)  and  mingled  shortly  with  the  mass  of  the  visitors. 
Winifred  was  very  glad  indeed  of  that,  for  she  wanted  to  ebcape 
observation.  Sir  Anthony's  report  had  been  far  from  reassur- 
ing. She  r  referred  to  remain  as  much  in  the  background  as 
l)()S8ible  that  afternoon :  all  she  wished  was  merely  to  observe 
;ind  to  listen. 

As  she  stood  there  mingling  with  the  general  crowd  P.nd 
talking  to  some  chance  acquaintance  of  old  London  ^ays,  she 
happened  to  overhear  two  scraps  of  conversation  going  on 
behind  her.  The  first  was  one  that  mentioned  no  names ;  and 
yet,  by  some  strange  feminine  instinct,  she  was  sure  it  was  of 
herself  the  speakers  were  talking. 

"  Oh  yes,"  one  voice  said  in  a  low  tone,  with  the  intonation 
that  betrays  a  furtive  side-glance ;  "  she's  far  from  strong — in 
fact,  very  delicate.  He  married  her  for  her  money — of  course : 
that's  clear.  She  hadn't  much  else,  poor  little  thing,  except  a 
certain  short-lived  beaute  du  diable,  to  recommend  her.  And 
16 


f,:? 


I 


:  d 


238 


THIS  MORTAL   COIL. 


she  has  no  go  in  her;  she  won't  live  lona^.  You  rememher  what 
Galton  remarks  about  heiresses?  They're  generally  tlie  last 
decadent  members,  he  says,  of  a  moribund  stock  whose  strength 
is  failing.  They  bear  no  children,  or  if  any,  weaklings :  most  of 
them  break  down  with  their  first  infant;  and  they  die  at  last 
prematurely  of  organic  feebleness.  Why,  he  just  sold  himself 
outright  for  the  poor  girl's  property ;  that's  the  plain  English  of 
it ;  and  now,  I  hear,  with  his  extravagant  habits,  he's  got  him- 
self after  all  into  monetary  difficulties." 

"Agricultural  depression?"  the  second  voice  inquired — an 
older  man's  and  louder. 

"Worse  than  that,  I  fear;  agricultural  depression  and  an 
encroaching  sea.  Besides  which,  he  spends  too  freely. — But 
excuse  me,  Dr.  Moutrio,"  in  a  very  low  tone :  "  I'm  afraid  the 
lady's  rather  near  us." 

Winifred  strained  her  ears  to  the  utmost  to  hear  the  rest; 
but  the  voices  had  sunk  too  low  now  to  catch  a  sound,  and 
the  young  man  with  whom  she  was  supposed  to  be  talking  had 
evidently  got  tired  of  the  very  perfunctory  Yeses  and  Noes  she 
was  dealing  out  to  him  right  and  left  at  irregular  intervals  with 
charming  irrelevance.  She  roused  herself,  and  endeavoured 
spasmodically  to  regain  the  lost  thread  of  her  proper  conversa- 
tion. But  even  as  she  did  so,  another  voice,  far  more  distinct, 
from  a  lady  in  front,  caught  her  attention  with  the  name  "  Mi'<s 
Challoner."  \N  inified  pricked  up  her  ears  incontinently. 
Could  it  be  of  her  Elsie  that  those  two  were  talking?  Chal- 
loner's  not  such  a  very  uncommon  name,  to  be  sure!  And  yet 
— and  yet,  there  are  not  so  many  Miss  Chal loners,  either, 
distributed  up  and  down  the  surface  of  Europe,  as  to  n-ake 
the  coincidence  particularly  improbable.  Chailouers  are  nor, 
so  plentiful  as  blackberries.  It  might  every  bit  as  well  be  Elsie 
as  any  other  Miss  Challoner  unattached.  Winifred  strained  her 
ears  once  more  to  catch  their  talk  with  quickened  interest. 

"  Oh  yes,"  the  second  lady  addressed  made  answer  cheerfully ; 
"she  was  very  well  when  we  last  sa,w  her  in  April  at  San  Kemo. 
We  had  the  next  villa  to  the  Eelfs  on  the  hillside,  you  know. 
But  Miss  Challoner  doesn't  come  to  England  now;  she  was 
going  as  usual  to  St.  Martin  Lantosquo  to  spend  the  summer, 
wlien  we  left  the  Eiviera.  She  always  goes  there  as  soon  as  the 
San  Eemo  season's  over." 

"How  did  the  Eelfs  first  come  to  pick  her  up?"  the  other 
speaker  asked  curiously. 

"  Oh,  I  fancy  it  was  Mr.  Warren  Eelf  himself  who  mado  her 
acquaintance  somewhere  unearthly  down  in  Suffolk,  where  she 
used  to  be  a  governess.  He's  always  there,  I  believe,  lying  on 
a  mudbank,  yachting  and  sketching." 

Winifred  could  restrain  her  curiosity  no  longer.    "I  beg  your 


I  f^ 


AN  ARTISTIC  EVENT. 


239 


other 

lido  her 
jre  she 
|ring  on 

g  your 


pardon,"  she  said,  leaning  forward  eajrerly,  "but  I  think  you 
mentioned  a  certain  Miss  Ciialloner.  Way  I  ask,  does  it  happen 
by  any  cliance  to  be  Elsie  Challoner,  who  was  once  at  Girton? 
Because,  if  so,  she  was  a  governess  of  mine,  and  I  haven't  heard 
of  her  for  a  long  time  past.  Governesses  drop  out  of  one's 
world  so  fast.  I  (should  be  glad  to  know  where  she's  living  at 
present.'* 

The  lady  nodded.  "  Her  name's  Elsie,"  she  said  with  a  quiet 
inclination,  "and  she  was  certainly  a  Girton  girl;  but  I  hardly 
think  she  can  be  the  same  you  mention.  I  should  imagine, 
indeed,  slie's  a  good  deal  too  young  a  girl  to  have  been  your 
governess." 

It  was  innocently  said,  but  Winifred's  face  was  one  vivid 
flush  of  mingled  shame  and  humiliation.  Talk  about  beaute  du 
dia^yJe  indeed;  she  never  knew  before  she  had  grown  so  very 
plain  and  ancient.  "  I'm  not  quite  so  old  as  I  look,  perhaps," 
she  answered  hastily.  "  I've  'had  a  great  deal  to  break  me 
down.  But  I'm  glad  to  learn  where  Elsie  is,  anyhow.  You 
said  she  was  living  at  San  Eemo,  I  fancy  V  " 

"At  San  Eemo.  Yes.  She  spends  her  winters  there.  For 
the  summers,  she  always  goes  up  to  St.  Martin." 

'  Thank  you,"  Winifred  answered  with  a  throbbing  heart. 
"I'm  glad  to  have  found  out  at  last  what's  become  of  her. — 
Mrs.  Barton,  if  you  can  tear  yourself  away  from  Dr.  and  Mrs. 
Tyacke,  who  are  always  so  alluring,  suppose  we  go  upstairs 
now  and  look  at  the  pictures." 

In  the  studio,  Warren  llelf  recognized  her  at  once,  and  with 
much  trepidation  came  up  to  speak  to  her.  It  would  all  be  out 
now,  he  greatly  fe;ired;  and  Hugh  would  learn  at  last  that 
Elsie  was  living.  For  Winifred's  own  sake — she  looked  so  pale 
and  ill — he  would  fain  have  kept  the  Bscret  to  himself  a  few 
months  longer. 

Winifred  held  out  her  hand  froAikly.  She  iilced  Warren ;  she 
had  always  liked  him;  and  besides,  Hugh  had  forbidden  her 
to  see  him.  Her  lips  trembled,  but  she  was  bold,  and  spoke. 
"  Mr.  Relf,"  she  said  with  quiet  earnestness,  "  I'm  so  glad  to 
meet  you  here  to  day  again— glad  on  more  than  one  account. 
You  go  to  San  Remo  often,  I  believe.  Can  you  tell  me  if  Elsie 
Challoner  is  living  +here?  " 

Warren  h'elf  looked  back  at  her  in  undisguised  astonishment. 
"  She  is,"  he  answered.    "  Did  my  sister  tell  you  so  ?  " 

"No,"  Winifred  replied  with  bitter  truthfulness.  "I  found 
it  out."  And  v^'ith  that  one  short  incisive  sentence,  she  moved 
on  coldly,  as  if  she  would  fain  look  at  the  pictures. 

"Does — does  Mciasinger  know  it ? "  Warren  asked  all  aghast, 
taken  aback  by  surprise,  and  unwittingly  trampling  ou  her 
ttnderest  feelings. 


m' 


\¥ 


11 


!l 


240 


TJlia  MORTAL   COIL. 


Id  'I  ii 


III 


Winifred  turned  ronnd  upon  him  with  an  angry  flash.  This 
was  more  than  she  could  bear.  The  tears  were  struggling  hard 
to  rise  to  her  eyes ;  she  kept  them  back  with  a  supreme  eflfbrt. 
"How  should  I  know,  pray?"  she  answered  fiercely,  but  very 
low.  "  Does  he  make  me  the  confidante  of  all  his  loves,  do  you 
suppose,  Mr.  Eelf  ? — He  said  she  was  in  Australia. — He  told  me 
a  lie. — Everybody's  combined  and  caballed  to  deceive  me.— 
How  should  I  know  whether  he  knows  or  not?  I  know  nothing. 
But  one  thing  I  know :  from  my  mouth  at  least  he  shall  never, 
never,  never  hear  it." 

She  turned  awny,  stern  and  hard  as  iron.  Hugh  had  deceived 
her;  Elsie  had  deceived  her.  The  two  souls  she  had  loved  the 
best  on  earth!  From  that  moment  forward,  the  joy  of  her  life, 
whatever  bad  been  left  of  it,  was  all  gone  from  her.  She  went 
forth  from  the  room  a  crushed  creature. 

How  varied  in  light  and  shade  the  world  is!  While  Winifred 
was  driving  gloomily  back  to  her  own  lodgings— solitary  and 
heart-broken,  in  Mrs.  Bouverie  Barton's  comfortable  carriage — 
revolving  in  her  own  wounded  soul  this  incredible  conspiracy 
of  Hugh's  and  Elsie's — Edie  Relf  and  her  mother  and  brother 
were  joyfully  discussing  their  great  triumph  in  the  now  dis- 
mantled and  empty  front  drawing-room  at  128,  Bletchingley 
Road,  South  Kensington. 

"  Have  you  totted  up  the  total  of  the  sales,  Warren  ?  "  Edia 
Relf  inquired  with  a  bright  light  in  her  eye  and  a  smile  on  her 
lips;  for  the  private  view — her  own  inception — had  been  more 
than  successful  from  its  very  beginning. 

Warren  jotted  down  a  series  of  figures  on  the  back  of  an 
envelope  and  counted  them  up  mentally  with  profound  trepi- 
dation. "Mother,"  he  cried,  clasping  her  hand  with  a  con- 
vulsive clutch  in  his,  "  I'm  afraid  to  tell  you ;  it's  so  positively 
grand.  It  seems  really  too  much. — If  this  goes  on,  you  need 
never  take  any  pupils  again. — Edie,  we  owe  it  all  to  you. — It 
can't  be  right,  yet  it  comes  out  square.  I've  reckoned  up  twice 
and  got  each  time  the  same  total — Four  hundred  and  fifty !  " 

'•I  thought  so,"  Edie  answered  with  a  happy  little  laugh  of 
complete  triumph.  "I  hit  upon  such  a  capital  dodge,  Warren. 
I  never  told  you  beforehand  what  I  was  going  to  do,  for  I  knew 
if  I  did,  you'd  never  allow  me  to  put  it  into  execution;  but  I 
wrote  the  name  and  price  of  each  picture  in  big  letters  and 
plain  figures  on  the  back  of  the  frame.  Then,  whenever  I  took 
up  a  person  with  a  good,  coiny,  solvent  expression  of  counte- 
nance, and  a  picture-buying  crease  about  the  corners  of  the 
mouth,  to  inspect  the  studio,  I  waited  for  them  casually  to  ask 
the  name  of  any  special  piece  they  particularly  admired.  *  liOt 
me  see,'  said  I.  'What  does  Warren  call  that?  I  think  it's 
on  the  back  hero.'    So  I  turned  round  the  frame,  and  there 


AN  ARTISTIC  EVENT. 


241 


tliey'd  see  if,  as  large  as  life:  *By  Stormy  Seas— Ten  Pounds;' 
or,  'The  Haunt  of  the  Sea-Swallows — Thirty  Guineas.'  That 
always  fetched  them,  my  dear.  Tliey  couldn't  resist  it.  It's 
a  ticklish  thing  to  inquire  about  prices.  People  don't  like  to 
ask,  for  fear  they  should  offend  you,  or  the  figure  should  happen 
to  be  tjo  stiff  for  their  purses;  and  it  makes  them  feel  small  to 
inquire  the  price  and  find  it's  ten  times  as  much  as  they  ex- 
pected. But  when  they  see  the  amount  written  down  in  black 
and  white  before  their  own  eyes,  at  our  astonishingly  low  cash 
qnotatioi....  what  on  earth  can  they  do,  being  human,  but  buy 
them  ? — Warren,  yon  may  give  me  a  kiss,  if  you  like.  PlI  tell 
you  what  I've  done:    I've  made  your  fortune." 

Warren  kissed  her  affectionately  on  the  forehead,  half  abashed. 
"  You're  a  bad  girl,  Edie,"  he  said  good-humouredly ;  "  and  if 
I'd  only  known  it,  I'd  certainly  have  taken  a  great  hig  cake  of 
best  ink-eraser  and  rubbed  your  plain  figures  all  carefully  out 
again. — But  I  don't  care  a  pin  in  the  end,  alter  all,  if  I  can 
make  this  dear  mother  and  you  comfortable." 

"  And  marry  Elsin,"  Edie  put  in  mischievously. 

Warren  gave  a  quiet  sigh  of  regret.  "  And  marry  Elsie,"  ho 
added  low.    " But  Elsie  will  never  marry  me.' 

"  You  goose ! "  said  Edie,  and  laughed  at  him  to  his  face. 
She  knew  women  better  than  he  did. 

"  That  dear  Mr.  Hatherley  managed  quite  half,"  she  went  on 
after  a  pause.  " If  you'd  only  htard  him  discussing  textures, 
or  listened  to  the  higli-flown  nonsense  he  talked  about  *  delicate 
touch,*  and  'crystalline  purity,'  and  'poetical  undertones/ 
and  'keen  insight  into  the  profoundest  recesses  of  nature,' 
you'd  have  blushed  to  learn  what  a  great  painter  you  are, 
Warren.  Why,  he  made  out  that  a  wave  to  your  artistic  eyes 
shone  like  opal  and  beryl  to  the  ignoble  vulgar.  He  remarked 
that  liquid  sapphires  simply  strewed  your  summer  seas,  and 
mud  in  your  hands  became  more  gorgeous  than  marble  to  the 
common  understanding.  The  dear  good  fellow!  That's  what 
I  call  something  like  a  friend  for  you.  Your  artistic  eye,  indeed! 
I  could  just  have  thrown  my  arms  around  his  neck  and  kissed 
him ! " 

" Edie! "  her  mother  exclaimed  reprovingly.  The  last  gener- 
ation deprecates  such  open  expression  of  feminine  approbation. 

"  I  could,  mother,"  Edie  answered  with  a  bounce,  unabashed. 
"And  what's  more,  I  should  have  awfully  liked  to  do  it.  I 
should  love  to  kiss  him ;  and  I  don't  care  twopence  who  hears 
me  say  so.— Goodness  gracious,  I  do  hope  that  isn't  Mr.  Hath- 
erley out  on  the  staircase  there ! " 

But  it  was  only  Martha  bringing  back  from  the  attics  the 
strictly  necessary  in  the  way  of  furniture  for  the  mcil  that  was 
to  serve  them  in  litu  of  dinner. 


i  I  i 


242 


THIS  MORTAL   GOIL. 


And  all  tins  while,  poor  lonely  Winifred  was  rocking  herself 
wildly  backward  and  forward  in  Mrs.  Bouverie  Bartou's  com- 
fortable carriage,  and  muttering  to  herself  in  a  mad  fever  of 
despair:  "1  could  have  believed  it  of  Hugh;  but  of  Elsie,  of 
Elsie — never,  never ! " 

Elsie's  ring  gleamed  bright  on  her  finger — the  ring,  as  she 
thought,  that  Elsie  had  sent  her;  the  ring  that  Hugh  had  really 
enclosed  in  the  forged  letter.  Hateful,  treacherous,  cruel  sou- 
venir! At  Hyde  Park  Corner,  where  the  crowd  of  carriages 
and  riders  was  thickest,  she  .ore  it  off  and  flurg  it  with  mad 
energy  into  the  midst  of  the  roadway.  The  horses  might 
trample  it  under  foot  and  destroy  it.  Elsie,  too — Elsie — Elsie 
was  a  traitor!  She  flung  it  from  her  like  some  poisonous  thing; 
and  then  she  sank  back  exhausted  on  the  cushions. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 


THE   STRANDS  DRAW  CLOSER. 

"  T  FEEL  it  my  duty  to  let  you  know,"  Sir  Anthony  Wraxall 
wrote  to  Hugh  a  day  or  two  late::^— by  the  hand  of  his  amanu- 
ensis— "  that  Mrs.  Ma^singer's  lungs  are  far  more  seriously  and 
dangerously  ailected  that  I  deemed  it  at  all  prudent  to  inform 
her  in  person  last  week,  when  she  consulted  me  here  on  the 
subject.  Galloping  consumption,  T  regret  to  say,  may  super- 
vene at  any  time.  The  phthisical  tendency  manifests  itself  in 
Mrs.  IMassinger's  case  in  an  advanced  stage;  and  general  tuber- 
culosis may  therefore  on  the  shortest  notice  carry  her  off  with 
startling  rapidity.  1  would  advise  you,  under  these  painlul 
circumstances,  to  give  her  the  benefit  of  a  warmer  wintir 
climate ;  if  not  Egypt  or  Algeria,  then  at  least  Mentone, 
Catania,  or  Malaga.  She  should  not  on  any  account  risk  seeing 
another  English  Christinas.  If  she  remains  in  Suffolk  during 
the  colder  months  of  the  present  year,  I  dare  not  personally 
answer  for  the  probable  consequences." 

Hugh  laid  down  the  letter  with  a  sigh  of  despair.  It  was 
the  last  straw,  and  it  broke  his  back  with  utter  despondency. 
How  to  finance  a  visit  to  the  south  he  knew  not.  Talk  about 
Algeria,  Catania,  Malaga!  he  had  hard  enough  work  to  make 
both  ends  meet  anyhow  at  Whitesfcrand.  During  the  time  that 
had  elapsed  since  Hatherley's  visit,  his  dreams  had  fled,  his 
acres  had  melted,  and  his  exchequer  had  emptied  itself  with 
unexampled  rapidity.  The  Whitestrand  currency  was  already 
very  much  inflated  indeed :  half  of  it  consisted  frankly  of  unre- 


THE  STRANDS  DBAW  CLOSER. 


248 


deemed  rnortgnge,  and  the  other  half  of  unconsolidated  floating 
debt  to  the  butcher  and  baker.  He  had  trusted  first  of  all  to 
the  breakwater  to  redeem  everything :  but  the  breakwater,  that 
broken  reed,  had  only  pierced  the  hand  that  leaned  upon  it. 
The  sea  shifted  and  the  sand  drifted  worse  than  ever.  Then  he 
had  hoped  the  best  from  "  A  Life's  Philosophy ;  '*  but  "  A  Life's 
Philosophy,"  published  after  long  and  fruitless  negotiations,  at 
his  own  risk — for  no  firm  would  so  much  as  touch  it  as  a  busi-  ■ 
iiess  speculation — had  never  paid  the  long  printer's  bill,  let 
alone  recouping  him  for  his  lost  time  and  trouble.  Nobody 
wanted  to  read  about  his  life  or  his  philosophy.  No  epic  poem 
could  have  fallen  flatter.  It  went  as  dead  as  a  blank-verse 
tragedy,  waking  laughter  in  indolent  reviewers.  He  had  in  his 
desk  at  that  very  moment  the  first  statement  of  accounts  for 
the  futile  venture ;  and  it  showed  a  balance  on  the  debit  side  of 
some  £54  7s.  lid.  There  was  a  fatal  precision  that  was  simply 
crushing  about  that  odd  item  of  7s.  lid.  He  had  dreamed  of 
thousands,  and  he  had  this  to  pay!  Foiled— and  by  an 
accountant!  the  melodramatist  within  him  remarked  angrily. 
Hugh  groaned  as  he  thought  of  his  own  high  hopes,  and  their 
utter  frustration  by  a  numerical  deficit  of  so  base  a  sum  as 
£54  7s.  lid.  He  would  have  endured  the  round  hundred  with 
flir  greater  complacency.  That  was  at  least  heroic.  But 
7s.l\d.\  The  degradation  sank  deep  into  his  poet's  heart.  To 
be  balked  of  Parnassus  by  7s.  lid. ! 

Of  Winifred's  health,  Hugh  thonght  far  less  than  of  the 
financial  difficulty.  He  saw  she  was  ill,  decidedly  ill,  but  not 
so  ill  as  everybody  else  who  saw  her  imagined.  Wrapped  up 
in  his  own  selfish  hopes  and  fears,  never  really  fond  of  his  poor 
small  wife,  and  now  estranged  for  months  and  months  by  her 
untimely  discovery  of  Elsie's  watch,  which  both  he  and  she  had 
entirely  misinterpreted,  Hugh  Massinger  had  seen  that  frail 
young  creature  grow  thinner  and  paler  day  by  day  without  at 
any  time  realizing  the  profundity  of  the  change  or  the  actual 
seriousneps  of  her  failing  condition.  Even  when  those  whom 
we  devotedly  love  grow  ill  by  degrees  before  our  very  eyes,  we 
are  apt  long  to  overlook  the  gradual  stages,  if  we  see  them  con- 
stantly from  day  to  day;  our  standard  varies  too  slowly  for 
comparison:  the  stranger  who  comes  at  long  intervals  finrls 
himself  often  far  better  able  to  m;irk  and  report  upon  the  pro- 
gress of  disease  than  those  who  watch  and  ohserve  the  patient 
most  anxiously.  But  with  Hugh,  complete  indifference  helped 
also  to  mask  the  inwlious  eifeot  of  a  creeping  illness;  he  didn't 
care  enough  about  Winifred's  health  to  notice  whether  she  was 
looking  really  feebler  or  otherwise.  And  even  now,  when  Sir 
Anthony  Wraxall  wrote  in  such  plain  terms,  the  main  thought 
in  his  own  mind  was  merely  that  these  doctors  were  always 


^m 


mn-i: 


244 


THIS  MORTAL   COIL. 


terrible  alaruiists.  He  would  take  Winifred  away  to  the  south, 
of  course:  a  ductor's  orders  must  be  obeyed  at  all  hazards.  So 
much,  conventional  morality  imposed  upon  him.  But  she 
wasn't  half  so  ill,  he  felt  certain,  as  Sir  Anthony  thought  her. 
Most  of  it  was  just  her  nasty  hysterical  temperament.  A  winter 
with  the  swallows  would  soon  bring  her  round.  She'd  be  all 
right  again  with  a  short  course  of  warmer  weather. 

He  went  out  into  the  drawing-room  to  join  Winifred.  Ho 
found  her  lying  lazily  on  the  sofa,  pretending  to  read  the  first 
volume  of  Besant's  last  new  novel  from  Mudie's.  "  The  wind's 
shifted,"  he  began  uneasily.  "  We  shall  get  it  warmer,  I  hope, 
soon,  Winifred," 

"  Yes,  the  wind's  shifted,"  Winifred  answered  gloomily,  look- 
ing np  in  a  hopeless  and  befogged  way  from  the  pages  of  Ik-v 
story.  "It  blew  straight  across  from  Siberia  yesterday ;  to-day 
it  blows  straight  across  from  Greenland.  That's  all  the  chaniie 
we  ever  get,  it  seems  to  me,  in  the  weather  in  England.  One 
day  the  wind's  easterly  and  cold;  another  day  it's  westerly 
and  damp.  Bronchitis  on  one  side ;  rheumatism  on  the  other. 
There's  the  whole  difference." 

"  How  would  you  like  to  go  abroad  for  the  winter,  I  wonder  ?  " 
Hugh  asked  tentatively,  with  some  faint  attempt  at  his  old 
kindliness  of  tone  and  manner. 

His  wife  glanced  over  at  him  with  a  sudden  and  strangely 
suspicious  smile.  "To  San  Kenio,  I  sui)poseV"  she  answered 
bitterly. 

She  mrant  the  name  to  speak  volumes  to  Plugh's  conscience ; 
but  it  fell  upon  his  ears  as  flat  and  unimpressive  as  any  other. 
"Not  necessarily  to  San  Eemo,"  he  replied,  alll  unconscious. 
"  To  Algeria,  if  you  like — or  Mcntone,  or  Bordighera." 

Winifred  rose,  and  walked  without  one  word  of  explanation, 
but  with  a  resolute  air,  into  the  study,  next  door  When  she 
came  out  again,  she  carried  in  her  two  arms  Keith  Johnston's 
big  Imperial  Atlas. "  It  was  a  heavier  book  than  sl\e  could  easily 
lift  in  her  present  feeble  condition  of  body,  but  Hugh  never 
even  offered  to  help  her  to  carry  it.  The  day  of  small  polite- 
nesses and  courtesies  was  long  gone  past.  He  only  looked  on  in 
mute  surpri.se,  anxious  to  know  whence  came  this  sudden  new- 
born interest  in  the  neglected  study  of  European  geography. 

Winifred  laid  the  atlas  down  with  a  flop  on  the  five  o'clock 
tea-table,  that  staggered  with  its  weight,  and  turned  the  pages 
with  feverish  haste  till  she  came  to  the  map  of  Northern  Italy. 
"  I  thought  so,"  she  gasped  out,  as  she  scanned  it  close,  a  lurid 
red  spot  burning  bright  in  her  cheek.  "  Mentone  and  Bor- 
dighera are  both  of  them  almost  next  door  to  Sau  Eemo. — Tlio 
nearest  stations  on  the  line  along  the  coast.— You  could  run 
over  there  often  by  rail  from  either  of  them." 


■  i-»ll»^  "f?,*-"" 


t  •V1PW«-^U  M  'Wif^l  INJ^-—  W»^M»P     P^  1 1 1  "J.  Ff  Sm< 


T//^  STHANDS  DBAW  CLOSER. 


245 


Olil 


pastes 
Italy, 
hivid 
t  Bor- 
— Tho 
Id  run 


"  Run  over— often — by  rail— to  San  'Roino  ?  "  Hugh  repeated 
with  a  genuinely  puzzled  expresi^ion  of  countenance. 

"  Oh,  you  act  admirably ! "  Winifred  cried  with  a  sneer. 
"  "What  perfect  bewilderment  I  What  childlike  innoctnce ! 
I've  always  considered  you  an  Irving  wasted  upon  private  life. 
If  you'd  gone  upon  the  stage,  you'd  have  made  your  fottune ; 
which  you've  scarcely  succeeded  in  doing,  it  must  be  couftsscd, 
at  your  various  existing  assorted  professions." 

Hugh  stared  back  at  her  in  blank  amazement.  "I  don't 
know  what  you  mean,"  he  answered  shortly. 

*'  Capital  1  capital ! "  Winifred  went  on  in  her  bitter  mood, 
endeavouring  to  assume  a  playful  tone  of  un?oncerned  irony. 
"  I  never  saw  you  act  better  in  all  iny  life — not  even  when  you 
were  pretending  to  fall  in  love  with  me.  It's  your  most  suc- 
cessful part— the  injured  innocent : — much  better  than  the  part 
of  the  devoted  husband.  If  I  were  yon,  I  should  always  stick 
to  it.  It  suits  your  features. — Well,  well,  we  may  as  well  go  to 
Snn  Remo  itself,  I  suppose,  as  anywhere  else  in  the  immediate 
neighbourhood.  I'd  rather  be  on  the  spot  and  see  the  whole 
play  with  my  own  eyes,  than  guess  at  it  blindly  from  a  distance, 
at  RI  en  tone  or  Bordighera.  You  may  do  your  Eomeo  before  an 
admiring  audience.  San  Eemo  it  shall  be,  since  you've  set 
your  heart  upon  it.— But  it's  very  abrupt,  this  sudden  conver- 
sion of  yours  to  the  charms  of  the  Riviera." 

"  Winifred,"  Hugh  cried,  with  transparent  conviction  in 
every  note  of  his  voice,  "  I  see  you're  labouring  under  some 
distressing  misapprehension ;  but  I  give  you  my  solemn  word 
of  honour  I  don't  in  the  least  know  what  it  is  you're  driving  at. 
You're  talking  about  somebody  or  something  unknown  that  I 
don't  imderstand.    I  wish  you'd  explain.    I  can't  follow  you." 

But  he  had  acted  too  often  and  too  successfully  to  be  believed 
now  for  all  liis  earnestness.  **  Your  solemn  word  of  honour  1 " 
Winifred  burst  out  angrily,  with  intense  contempt.  "Your 
solemn  word  of  honour,  indeed !  And  pray,  who  do  you  think 
believes  now  in  your  precious  word  or  your  honour  either? — 
You  can't  deceive  me  any  longer,  thank  goodness,  Hugh.  I 
know  you  want  to  go  to  San  Remo ;  and  I  know  for  whose  sake 
you  want  to  go  there.  This  solicitude  for  my  health's  all  a 
pure  fiction.  Little  you  cared  for  my  health  a  month  ago !  Oh 
no,  I  see  through  it  all  distinctly.  You've  found  out  there's  a 
reason  for  going  to  San  Eemo,  and  you  want  to  go  for  your  own 
pleasure  accordingly." 

"  I  don't  want  to  go  to  San  Remo  at  all,"  Hugh  cried,  getting 
angry.  "  I  never  paid  a  word  myself  about  San  Remo ;  I  never 
proposed  or  thought  of  San  Remo.  It  was  you  yourself  who 
first  suggested  the  very  name.  I've  nothing  to  do  with  it;  and 
what's  more,  I  wont  go  there." 


'' 


24B 


THIS  MORTAL   COIL. 


"Oh  yes,  I  know,'*  Winifred  answered  provokingly,  with 
anotlicr  of  her  frequent  Rharp  fits  of  coughing.  "  You  didn't 
mention  it.  Of  course  I  noticed  that.  You're  a  great  deal  too 
Bliarp  to  commit  yourself  so.  You  carefully  avoided  naming 
San  Eemo,  for  fear  you  should  happen  to  rouse  my  intuitive 
suspicions.  You  proposed  we  should  go  to  Mentone  or  Bor- 
dighera  instead,  where  you  could  easily  run  across  whenever 
you  liked  to  your  dear  San  Eemo,  and  where  I  should  bo  per- 
haps a  little  less  likely  to  find  out  the  reason  you  wanted  to  go 
there  for. — But  I  see  through  your  plans.  I  chf  ckmate  your 
designs.  I  won't  give  in  to  them.  Whatever  comes,  you  may 
count  at  least  upon  finding  me  always  ready  to  thwart  you.  I 
shall  go  to  San  Eemo,  if  I  go  away  at  all,  and  to  nowhere  else 
on  the  whole  Eiviera.  I  prefer  to  face  the  worst  at  once,  thank 
you.  I  shall  know  everything,  if  there's  anything  to  know. 
And  I  won't  be  shuffled  oflf  upon  your  Mentone  or  your  Bor- 
dighera,  while  you're  rehearsing  your  balcony  scenes  at  San 
Eemo  alone ;  so  that's  flat  for  you." 

An  idea  flashed  sudden  across  Hugh's  mind.  "I  think, 
Winifred,"  he  said  calmly,  "  you're  labouring  under  a  mistake 
about  the  place  you're  speaking  of.  The  gaming  tables  are  not 
at  San  Eemo,  as  you  suppose,  but  at  Monte  Carlo,  just  beyond 
Mentone.  And  if  you  thought  I  wanted  to  go  to  the  Eiviera 
for  the  sake  of  repairing  our  mined  estate  at  Monte  Carlo, 
you're  very  much  mistaken.  I  wanted  to  go,  I  solemnly  declare, 
for  your  health  only." 

Winifred  rose,  and  faced  him  now  like  an  angry  tigress. 
Her  sunken  white  cheeks  were  flushed  and  fiery  indeed  with 
suppressed  wrath,  and  a  bright  light  blazed  in  her  dilated 
pupils.  The  full  force  of  a  burning  indignation  possessed  her 
soul.  "Hugh  Ma«singer,"  she  said,  repelling  him  haughtily 
with  her  thin  left  hand,  "  you've  lied  to  me  for  years,  and  you're 
lying  to  me  now  as  you've  always  lied  to  me.  You  know  you've 
lied  to  me,  and  you  know  you're  lying  to  me.  This  prctenee 
about  my  health's  a  transparent  falsehood.  These  prevarica- 
tions about  the  gambling  tables  are  a  tissue  of  fictions.  You 
can't  deceive  me.  I  know  why  you  want  to  go  to  San  Eemo ! " 
And  she  pushed  him  away  in  disgust  with  licr  anpry  finpers. 

The  action  and  the  insult  were  too  much  for  Hugh.  He 
could  no  longer  restrain  himself.  Sir  Anthony's  letter  trembled 
in  his  hands ;  he  was  clutching  it  tight  in  his  waistcoat  pocket. 
To  sliow  it  to  Winifred  would  have  been  cruel,  perhaps,  under 
any  other  circumstances ;  but  in  face  of  such  an  accusation  as 
that,  yet  wholly  misunderstood,  flesh  and  blood— at  least  Hugh 
Massinger's — could  not  further  resist  the  temptation  of  pro- 
ducing it.  "  Eead  that,"  he  cried,  handing  her  over  the  letter 
coldly;  "you'll  f8o  from  it  why  it  is  I  want  to  go;  why,  in 


THE  SlTiANDS  DRAW  CLOSER. 


2Vl 


'I 


bniol" 

He 
ImWed 
locket. 
Iimdor 
ion  as 
fHush 
|f  pro- 
letter 
liy,  in 


ppite  of  all  we've  lost  and  arc  losing,  I'm  still  prepared  to  sub. 
mit  to  this  extra  expetidittire." 

"Out  of  my  money,"  Winifred  answered  Rcornfnlly,  as  slio 
took  tlio  paper  with  an  inclination  of  mock-courtesy  from  his 
tremulous  hands.  "  IIow  very  generous !  And  how  very  kind 
of  you!" 

She  read  the  letter  throngh  without  a  single  word;  then  sho 
yielded  at  last,  in  spite  of  herself,  to  her  womanly  tears.  "I 
pee  it  all,  Hugh,"  sho  cried,  flinging  herself  down  once  more  in 
despair  upon  the  sofa.  "  You  fancy  I'm  going  to  die  now  ;  and 
it  will  be  so  convenient,  so  very  convenient  for  you,  to  be  near 
her  there  next  door  at  San  Remo ! " 

Hugh  ga/cd  at  her  again  in  mute  surprise.  A^  last  he  saw 
it — he  saw  it  in  all  its  naked  hideousness.  A  light  began  gra- 
dually to  dawn  upon  his  mind.  It  was  awful — it  was  horrible 
in  its  cruel  Nemesis  upon  his  unspoken  crime.  To  think  she 
should  be  jealous — of  his  murdered  Elsie!  He  could  hardly 
speak  of  it;  but  he  must,  he  must.  "  Winnie,"  he  cried,  almost 
softened  by  his  pity  for  what  he  took  to  be  her  deadly  and 
terrible  mistake,  '*  I  understand  you,  I  think,  after  all.  I  know 
what  you  mean. — You  believe— that  Elsie — is  at  San  Eemo." 

Winifred  looked  up  at  him  through  her  tears  with  a  wither- 
ing glance.  "  You  have  said  itl  "  she  cried  in  a  haughty  voice, 
and  relapsed  into  a  silent  fit  of  sobbing  and  suppressed  cough, 
with  her  poor  wan  face  buried  deep  once  more  like  a  wounded 
child's  in  the  cushinus  of  the  sofa. 

What  would  not  Hugh  have  given  if  only  he  could  have 
explained  to  her  there  that  moment  that  Elsie  was  lying  dead, 
for  three  years  past  and  more,  in  her  nameless  grave  at  Orford- 
ness!  But  he  could  not.  He  dared  not.  His  own  past  lies 
rose  up  in  judgment  at  last  against  him.  He  bowed  his  head, 
unable  even  to  weep.  Jealous  of  Elsie!  of  poor  dead  Elsie! 
That  was  what  she  meant,  then,  by  the  talk  about  his  balcony 
scene!  But  Elsie  would  never  play  Juliet  to  his  Borneo  again. 
Elsie  was  dead,  and  Winifred,  alas,  would  never  now  believe  it. 
Truly,  his  ])unishment  was  greater  than  he  could  bear.  He 
bowed  his  head  in  silent  shame.  The  penalty  of  his  sin  was 
bitter  upon  him. 

One  only  way  now  lay  open  before  him.  He  would  take  her 
to  San  Bemo,  and  let  her  see  for  herself  how  utterly  groundless, 
and  futile,  and.  unjust  were  her  base  suspicions.  Ho  would 
show  her  that  Elsie  was  not  at  San  Bemo, 


"llli 


if 
i 

li 


mi  ; 


248  Ti7/5  MORTAL   COIL. 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

RETRIBUTION. 

Oh  the  horror  and  drudgery  of  those  next  few  ■weeks,  while 
Hugh,  in  a  fever  of  shuiiie  and  disgust,  was  anxiously  and 
wcai'ily  making  difficult  arrangements,  financial  or  otherwise, 
for  that  hopeless  flitting  to  the  sunny  South,  that  loomed  ahead 
so  full  of  gloom  and  wretchedness  for  himself  and  Winifred! 
The  speechless  agony  of  running  about,  with  a  smile  on  his 
lips  and  tliat  nameless  weight  on  his  crushed  heart,  driving 
horrid,  sordid,  cheese-paring  bargains  with  tho  family  attorney 
and  the  London  money-lenders  for  still  further  advances  on 
those  Hqnalid  worthless  pieces  of  stamped  paper!  The  ignomi- 
nious discussions  of  percentage  and  discount,  the  undignified 
surrender  of  documents  and  title-deeds,  the  disgusting  counter- 
ch(  cks  and  collateral  securities,  the  insulting  whispers  of  doubt 
and  uncertainty  as  to  hi;j  own  final  financial  solvency!  All 
those  indignities  would  in  themselves  ha-ve  been  quite  excrucia- 
ting," enough  to  torture  a  proud  man  of  Hugh  Massinger's 
haiiguty  and  sensitive  temperament.  But  to  suffer  all  these, 
with  the  superadded  wretchedness  of  Winifred's  growing  illness 
and  Winifred's  gathering  cloud  of  suspicion  about  his  own 
conduct,  was  simply  unendurable,  i^bove  iiil,  to  know  in  his 
own  soul  that  Winif'rr'd  was  jealous  of  jioor  dead  Elsie !  If  only 
he  could  have  made  a  '^lean  breast  of  it  all!  If  '>n!y  he  cjuld 
have  said  t^  her  in  one  single  outb.'ht,  "Elsie  is  dead! "it 
might  perhaps  iiave  oeen  easiiir.  Put  rflor  all  his  own  clever 
machinations  and  dcc^tions,  aftor  aU  his  long  course  of 
confirmatory  circumstantial  evidence — the  Icl^ters,  the  ring,  the 
messages,  the  details— how  on  earth  could  Winifred  ever  believe 
him  ?  His  cunning  recoiled  with  fatal  precision  upon  his  own 
head.  The  bolt  he  had  shot  turned  back  upon  his  brtast.  The 
pit  that  he  digged  he  himself  had  ftillen  therein. 

So  there  was  nothing  for  it  left  now  but  to  face  the  unspeak- 
able, to  endure  the  unendurable.  He  must  go  through  with  it 
all,  let  it  cost  what  it  might.  For  at  least  in  the  end  he  had 
one  comfort.  At  San  Eemo,  Winifred  would  find  out  she  was 
mistaken ;  there  was  no  Elsie  at  all,  there  or  elsewhere. 

What  had  led  her  astray  into  this  serious  pnd  singular  ^rror, 
he  wondered.  That  problem  exercised  his  weary  mu)d  not  a 
little  in  the  night-watches.  Morning  after  nioriting,  as  t>ie 
small  hours  clanged  solemnly  from  the  "Whitcstmnd  churc^li 
tower,  Hugh  lay  awake  and  !  arned  it  over  in  anxious  debate 


nKTRIliUTIoN. 


219 


\      I 


with  liiw  own  wild  tliongbts.  Could  Roniobody  havn  told  her 
they  had  met  Ronu!  Miss  Ohalloiior  or  other  accidentally  at  Sail 
Uemo?  Could  Warren  Kilf,  vilo  wretch  that  ho  was,  iudnstri- 
ously  have  circulated  some  h^stlcss  rumour  as  to  Elsie's 
whereabouts  on  purpose  to  entrap  him?  Or  could  Winifred 
herself  intuitively  have  arrived  at  her  own  idea,  woman-like, 
by  some  false  interference — some  stupid  mistake  as  to  post- 
mark or  envelope  or  name  or  handwriting?  It  was  all  an 
insoluhle  mystery  to  him;  and  Winifred  would  do  nothing 
towards  clearing  "t  np.  Whenever  he  tried  by  ehtvious  routes 
to  approach  the  sulject  from  a  fresh  side,  Winifred  turned 
rounel  up(m  him  at  once  with  fierce  indignation  in  her  pale 
blue  eyes  and  answered  always  :  "You  know  it  all.  Don't  try 
to  deceive  me.  It's  no  good  any  longer.  I  see  through  you  at 
last.     Why  go  on  lying  to  me? " 

The  more  ho  j)rotcsted,  the  more  scornful  and  caustic  Wini- 
freei  grew.  The  more  genuinely  and  sincerely  ho  declared  his 
bewilelennent,  the  more  convinced  sh(!  felt  in  her  own  mind 
that  he  acted  a  part  with  marvellous  akill  and  with  consummate 
heart)  essness. 

It  was  terrible  not  to  be  trusted  when  ho  told  the  plaiji 
truth ;  but  it  was  his  own  fault.  Ho  could  not  deny  it.  And 
that  it  was  his  own  fault  made  it  all  the  bitterer  for  him.  He 
haeln't  even  the  solace  of  a  righteous  indignation  to  comfort  his 
soul  in  this  last  depth  of  contumely. 

When  you  know  that  troubles  come  undeserved,  you  have 
the  easy  resource  of  conscious  rectitude  at  any  rate  to  support 
you.  The  just  man  in  adversity  is  least  to  bo  pitied.  It  is  the 
sinner  who  feels  the  whip  smart.  Hugh  had  to  swallow  it  all 
manfully,  and  to  eat  hu)n1)lc  pie  at  his  private  table  into  the 
bar.ain.  It  was  his  own  fault;  he  had  unhappily  no  one  but 
himself  to  blame  for  it. 

Aleanwhile,  Winifred  grew  rapidly  worse,  so  ill,  that  even 
Hugh  began  to  perceive  it,  and  despaired  of  being  able  to  carry  , 
her  in  safety  to  San  Remo.  The  shock  at  the  Keifs'  had  told 
seriously  upon  lier  weak  and  shattered  constitution :  the  con- 
stant friction  of  her  relations  with  Hugh  continued  to  tell  upon 
it  every  day  that  passed  over  her.  The  motherless  girl  and 
childless  mother  brooded  in  secret  over  her  great  grief;  she 
had  no  one,  absolutely  no  one  on  earth  who  could  sympathize 
with  her  in  her  terrible  trouble.  She  longed  to  fling  herself 
upon  Elsie's  bosom— the  dear  old  Elsie  that  had  once  been,  the 
Elsie  that  perhaps  could  still  understand  her — and  to  cry  aloud 
to  her  for  pity,  for  sympathy.  When  she  got  to  San  Remo,  she 
sometimes  thought,  she  would  tell  all — every  word — to  Elsie ; 
and  Elsie  at  least  must  be  very  much  changed  if  in  spite  of  all 
she  could  not  feel  for  her. 


■  I.  i 


i 


■! 


250 


TBIS 


MORTAL 


COIL. 


Proud  as  she  was,  she  would  throw  herself  on  Elsie's  mercy. 
Elsie  had  wronged  her,  and  she  would  tell  all  to  Elsie.  But 
not  lo  Hugh.  Hugh  was  hard  and  cold  and  unyielding  as 
steel.  It  would  not  be  for  long.  She  would  soon  be  released. 
And  then  Hugh She  shrank  from  thinking  it. 

Money  was  cheap,  the  lawyers  said ;  but  Hugh  found  he  had 
to  pay  dear  for  it.  Money  was  plentiful,  the  newspapers  re- 
ported; but  Hugh  found  it  as  scarce  as  charity.  He  took  a 
long  time  to  conclude  his  arrangements;  and  when  he  con- 
cluded them,  the  tenns  were  ruinous.  Never  mind  ;  Winifred 
wouldn't  last  long;  he  had  only  himself  to  think  about  in 
futnre. 

At  last  the  day  came  for  their  journey  South.  They  were 
going  alone,  without  even  a  maid;  glad  to  have  paid  the  ser- 
vants their  arrears  and  escape  alive  from  the  clutches  of  the 
butchers  and  bakers,  November  fogs  shrouded  the  world. 
Hugh  had  completed  those  vile  transactions  of  his  with  the 
attorneys  and  the  money-lenders,  and  felt  faintly  cheered  by 
the  actual  metallic  chink  of  gold  for  the  journey  rattling  and 
jingling  in  his  trousers'  pocket.  But  Winifred  sat  very  weak 
and  ill  in  the  far  corner  of  the  first-class  carriage  that  bore 
them  away  from  Charing  Cross  Station.  They  had  come  up  the 
clay  before  from  Almundham  to  town,  and  spent  the  night  luxu- 
riously in  the  rooms  of  the  Metropole.  You  must  make  a  dying 
woman  comfortable.  And  Hugh  had  dropped  round  with  defiant 
pride  into  the  Cheyne  Kow  Club,  assuming  in  vain  the  old  jaunty 
languid  poetical  air — "  of  the  days  before  he  had  degenerated 
into  landowning,"  Hatherley  said  afterwards — just  to  let  recalci- 
trant Bohemia  see  for  itself  it  hadn't  entirely  crushed  him  by  its 
jingling  jibes  and  its  scathing  critiques  of  "  A  Life's  Philosophy." 
But  the  protest  fell  flat;  it  was  indeed  a  feeble  one  :  heedless 
Bohemia,  engrossed  after  its  wont  with  its  last  new  favourite, 
the  rising  author  of  "  Lays  of  the  African  Lakeland,"  held  out  to 
Hugh  Massinger  of  Whitestrand  Hall  its  flabbiest  right  hand  of 
lukewarm  welcome.  And  this  was  the  Bohemia  that  once  had 
grasped  his  landless  fingers  with  fraternal  fervour  of  sympathetic 
devotion!  The  chilliness  of  his  reception  in  the  scene  of  his 
ancient  popularity  stung  the  Bard  to  the  quick.  No  more  for 
him  the  tabour,  the  cymbals,  and  the  oaten  pipe;  no  more  the 
blushful  Cheyne  Row  Hippoorene.  He  felt  himself  demode. 
The  rapid  stream  of  London  society  and  London  thought  had 
swept  eddying  past  and  left  him  stranded.  As  the  train  rolled 
on  upon  its  way  to  Dover,  Hugh  Massinger  of  Whitestrand  Hall 
— and  its  adjacent  sandhills — leaned  back  disconsolate  upon  the 
padded  cushions  of  his  leather-lined  carriage  and  thought  with 
a  sigh  to  himself  of  the  days  without  name,  without  number, 


RETRIBUTION, 


251 


ii 


w^lien,  proud  as  a  lord,  he  had  travelled  third  in  a  bare  pen  on 
the  honest  earnings  of  his  own  right  hand,  and  had  heard  of 
mortgages,  in  some  dim  remote  impersonal  way,  only  as  a 
foolish  and  expensive  aristocratic  indulgence.  A  mortgage  was 
nowadays  a  too  palpable  reality,  with  the  glamour  of  romance 
well  worn  off  it.  Ho  wished  its  too,  too  solid  sheepskin  would 
melt,  and  reduce  him  once  more  to  wooden  seats  and  happiness. 
( »h,  for  some  enchanted  carpet  of  the  Arabian  Nights,  to  trans- 
port him  back  with  a  bound  fiom  his  present  self  to  those  good 
old  days  of  Thirds  and  Elsie ! 

But  enchanted  carpets  are  now  unliappily  out  of  date,  and 
Channel  steamers  have  quite  superseded  the  magical  shallops  of 
good  Haroun-al-Raschid.  In  plain  prose,  the  Straits  were  rough, 
and  Winifred  sutttred  severely  from  the  tossing.  At  Cidnis, 
they  took  the  through  train  for  Marseilles,  having  secured  a 
coupe-lit  at  Charing  Cross  beforehand. 

That  was  a  terrible  night,  that  night  spent  in  the  cmipe-lit 
with  Winifred :  the  most  terrible  Hugh  had  ever  endured  since 
the  memorable  evening  when  Elsie  drowned  herself. 

They  had  passed  round  Paris  at  gray  dusk,  in  their  comfort- 
able through-carriage,  by  the  Chemin  de  Fer  de  Ceinture  to  the 
Gare  de  Lyon,  and  were  whirling  along  on  their  way  to  Fon- 
tainebleau  through  the  shades  of  evening,  when  Winifred  first 
broke  the  ominous  silence  she  had  preserved  ever  since  they 
stopped  at  St.  Denis.  *'It  won't  be  for  long  now,'*  she  said 
dryly,  **  and  it  will  be  so  convenient  for  you  to  be  at  San  Ilemo." 

Hugh's  heart  sank  once  more  within  hitn.  It  was  quite  clear 
that  Winifred  thought  Elsie  was  there.  He  wished  to  heaven 
she  was,  and  that  he  was  no  murderer.  Oh,  the  weight  that 
would  have  been  lifted  off  his  weary  soul  if  only  he  could  think 
it  so !  The  three  years'  misery  that  would  rise  like  a  mist  from 
his  uncertain  path,  if  only  he  did  not  know  to  a  certainty  that 
E  sie  lay  buried  atOrfordness  in  the  shipwrecked  sailors'  grave- 
yard by  the  Low  Lighthouse.  He  looked  across  at  Winifred  as 
she  sat  in  her  place.  She  was  pale  and  frail;  her  wasted  cheeks 
showed  white  and  hollow.  As  she  leaned  back  there,  with  a 
cold  light  gleaming  hard  and  chilly  from  her  sunken  blue  eyes 
— those  light  blue  eyes  that  he  had  never  loved — those  cruel 
blue  eyes  that  he  had  learned  at  last  to  avoid  with  an  instinc- 
tive shrinking,  as  they  gazed  through  and  through  him  with 
their  flabby  persistence — he  said  to  himself  with  a  sigh  of 
relief:  "She  can't  last  long.  Better  tell  her  all,  and  let  her 
know  the  truth.  It  could  do  no  harm.  She  might  die  the 
happier.    Dare  I  risk  it,  I  wonder  ?    Or  is  it  too  dangerous  ? " 

"  Well?  "  Winifred  asked  in  an  icy  tone,  interpreting  aright 
the  little  click  in  his  throat  and  the  doubtful  gleam  in  his 
riiifty  eyes  as  implying  some  hesitating  desire  to  speak  to  her. 


25i] 


THIS  MORTAL   COIL. 


II    ; 

1, 

! 

m 

1 

if 

1  If 

i 

<  ' 


,    !{ 


"  What  lie  are  you  going  to  ieli  rab  rest  ?  Speak  it  out  boldly  ! 
don't  be  afraid.  It's  no  novelty.  You  know  I'm  not  easily 
disconcerted." 

He  looked  back  at  her  nervously  with  bent  brows.  That 
fragile  small  creature  !  He  positively  feared  her.  Dare  he  tell 
her  the  truth?  And  would  she  believe  itV  Those  blue  eyes 
were  so  coldly  glassy.  Yet,  with  a  sudden  impulse,  he  resolved 
to  be  frank;  he  resolved  to  unburden  his  guilty  soul  of  all  its 
weight  of  care  to  Winifred. 

"No  lie,  Winifred,  but  the  solemn  truth,"  he  blurted  out 
slowly,  in  a  voice  that  of  itself  might  have  well  produced 
complete  conviction — on  any  one  less  incredulous  than  the  wife 
he  had  cajoled  and  deceived  so  often.  "You  think  Elsie's  at 
San  Kemo,  1  know. — You're  wrong  there ;  you're  quite  mistaken. 
— She's  not  in  San  Eemo,  nor  in  Australia  either.  That  was  a 
lie. — Elsie's  dead — dead  three  years  ago— before  we  were 
married. — Dead  and  buried  at  Orfordness.  And  I've  seen  her 
grave,  and  cried  over  it  like  a  child,  too." 

He  spoke  with  solemn  intensity  of  earnestness ;  but  he  spoke 
in  vain.  Winifred  thought,  herself,  till  that  very  moment,  she 
had  long  since  reached  the  lowest  possible  depth  of  contempt 
and  scorn  for  the  husband  on  whom  she  had  thrown  herself 
away ;  but  as  he  met  her  then  with  that  incredible  falsehood— 
as  she  must  needs  think  it — on  his  lying  lips,  with  so  grave  a 
face  and  so  profound  an  air  of  frank  confession,  her  lofty  disdain 
rose  at  once  to  a  yet  sublimer  height  of  disgust  and  loathing  of 
which  till  that  night  she  could  never  even  have  conceived 
herself  capable.  "  Vou  hateful  Thing!"  she  cried,  rising  from 
her  seat  to  the  centre  of  the  carriage,  and  looking  down  upon 
him  physically  from  her  point  of  vantage  as  he  cowered  and 
slank  like  a  cur  in  his  corner.  "  Don't  dare  to  address  me  again, 
I  say,  with  lies  like  that.  If  you  can't  find  one  word  of  truth  to 
tell  me,  have  the  goodness  at  least,  since  1  don't  desire  your 
further  conversation,  to  leave  me  the  repose  of  your  polite 
silence." 

"  But,  Winifred,"  Hugh  cried,  clasping  his  hands  together  in 
impotent  despair,  "this  is  the  truth,  the  very,  very  truth,  the 
whole  truth,  that  I'm  now  telling  you.  I've  hidden  it  from  you 
BO  long  by  deceit  and  treachery.  I  acknowledge  all  that:  I 
admit  I  deceived  you.  But  I  want  to  tell  you  the  whole  truth 
now;  and  you  won't  listen  to  me!  Oh,  heaven,  Winifred,  you 
won't  listen  to  me  !  '* 

On  any  one  else,  his  ngonized  voice  and  pleading  face  would 
have  produced  their  just  and  due  effect;  but  on  Winifred — 
impossible.  She  knew  he  was  lying  to  her  even  when  he  spoke 
the  truth;  and  the  very  intensity  and  fervour  of  his  horror  only 
added  to  her  sense  of  utter  repulsion  from  his  ingrained  false- 


RETIilBUTION. 


253 


ness  and  his  native  duplicity.  To  prelend  to  her  face,  with 
agonies  of  mock  remorse,  that  Elsie  was  dead,  when  she  knew 
lie  was  going  to  San  Keino  to  see  htr!  And  taking  his  own 
wedded  wife  to  die  there!  The  man  who  could  act  so  r(  ,listi- 
cally  as  that,  and  tell  lies  ro  glibly  .at  such  a  moment,  must 
be  fiilser  to  the  core  than  her  heart  had  ever  dreamed  or 
conceived  of. 

*'Go  on,"  she  murmured,  relapsing  into  her  corner.  "Con- 
tinue your  monologue.  It's  supreme  in  its  way — no  actor 
could  beat  it.  But  be  so  good  as  to  consider  my  part  in  the 
piece  left  out  altogether.  I  shall  answer  you  no  more.  I 
should  be  sorry  to  interrupt  so  finished  an  artist  1 " 

Her  scathing  contempt  wrought  up  in  Hugh  a  perfect  fury 
of  helpless  indignation.  That  he  should  wish  to  confess,  to 
humble  himself  before  her,  to  make  reparation!  and  that  Wini- 
fred should  spurn  his  best  attempt,  should  refuse  so  much  ns 
to  listen  to  his  avowal!  It  was  too  ignominious.  "For  heaven's 
sake,"  he  cried,  with  his  hands  clasped  hard,  "  at  least  let  me 
speak.  Let  me  have  my  say  out.  You're  all  wrong.  You're 
wronging  me  utterly.  I've  behaved  most  wickedly,  most  cruelly, 
I  know :  I  confess  it  all.  I  abase  myself  at  your  feet.  If  you 
want  me  to  be  abject,  I'll  grovel  before  you !  I  admit  my  crime, 
my  sin,  my  transgression. — I  won't  pretend  to  justify  myself  at 
all. — I've  lied  to  you,  forged  to  you,  deceived  you,  misled  you!" 
(At  each  clause  and  phrase  of  passionate  self-condemnation, 
Winifred  nodded  a  separate  sardonic  acquiescence.)  "But 
you're  wrong  about  this.  You  mistake  me  wholly. — I  swear 
to  you,  my  child,  Elsie's  not  alive.  You're  jealous  of  a  won)an 
who's  been  dead  for  years.  For  my  sin  and  shame  I  say  it, 
she's  dead  long  ago  1 " 

He  might  as  well  have  tried  to  convince  the  door-handle. 
Winifred's  loathing  found  no  overt  vent  in  angry  words;  she 
repressed  her  speech,  her  very  breath  almost,  with  a  spasmodic 
effort.  But  she  stretcli^jj  ont.both  her  hands,  the  palms  turned 
outward,  with  a  gesture  of  '  orror,  contempt,  and  repulsion; 
and  she  averted  her  face  witu  a  little  cry  of  supreme  disgust, 
checked  deep  down  in  her  rising  throat,  as  one  averts  one's 
face  instinctively  from  a  loathsome  sore  or  a  venomous  reptile. 
iSuch  hideous  duplicity  to  a  dying  woman  was  more  than  she 
could  brook  without  some  outer  expression  of  her  outraged 
sense  of  social  decency. 

But  Hugh  could  no  longer  restrain  himself  now;  he  had 
begun  his  tale,  and  he  must  run  right  through  with  it.  The 
fever  of  the  confessional  had  seized  upon  his  soul ;  remorse  and 
despair  were  goading  him  on.  He  must  have  relief  for  his 
pent-up  feelings.  Three  years  of  silence  were  more  than 
enough.    Winifred's  very  incredulity  compelled  him  to  con- 

ir 


•  ff- 


■I     " 


254 


THIS  MORTAL   COIL. 


tinne.  Ho  must  tell  her  all— all,  all,  ntferly.  He  mnst,  m.'ilcH 
her  underskind  to  the  uttermost  jot,  willy,  nilly,  that  hu  was 
not  deceiving  her! 

He  opened  the  floodgates  of  his  Rf  cccli  at  once,  and  flowed 
on  in  a  headlong  torrent  of  confession.  Winifred  sat  there, 
cowering  and  crouching  as  far  from  him  as  possible  in  the 
opposite  corner,  drinking  in  his  strange  tale  with  an  evident 
interest  and  a  horrible  placidity.  Not  that  she  ever  moved  or 
stirred  a  muscle;  she  heard  it  all  out  with  a  cold  set  smile 
playing  around  the  corners  of  hor  wasted  mouth,  that  was 
more  exasperating  by  far  to  behold  than  any  amount  of  con- 
tradiction would  have  been  to  listen  to.  It  goaded  Hugh  into 
a  perfect  delirium  of  feverish  self-revelation.  He  would  not 
submit  to  be  thus  openly  defied;  he  must  tell  her  all— all— a!l, 
till  she  believed  him. 

With  eager  lips,  he  began  his  story  from  the  very  boginnin;?, 

recapitulating  point  by  point  his  interview  with  Elsie  in  the 

Hall  grounds,  her  rushing  away  from  him  to  the  roots  of  the 

poplar,  her  mad  leap  into  the  swirling  black  ^^\^ter,  his  attempt 

to  rescue  her,  his  unconsciousness,  and  his  failure.    He  told  it 

all  with  dramatic  completeness.    Winifred  saw  and  heard  every 

scene  and  tone  and  emotion  as  he  reproduced  it.    Then  he  went 

on  to  tell  her  how  he  came  to  himself  again  on  the  bank  of  the 

dil'Q,  and  how  in  cold  and  darkness  he  formed  his  Plan,  that 

fatal,  horrible,  successful  Plan,  which  he  had  ever  since  been 

engaged  in  carrying  out  and  in  detesting.    He  described  how 

he  returned  to  the  inn,  unobserved  and  untracked;  how  ho 

forged  the  first  compromising  letter  from  Elsie ;  and  how,  once 

embarked  upon  that  career  of  deceit,  there  was  no  drawing 

back  for  him  in  crime  after  crime  till  the  present  moment.    He 

despised  himself  for  it;  but  still  he  told  it.    Next  came  the 

episode  of  Elsie's  bedroom :  the  theft  of  the  ring  and  the  other 

belongings;  the  hasty  flight,  the  fall  from  the  creeper;  and  his 

subsequent  horror  of  the  physical  surroundings  connected  with 

that  hateful  night  adventure.    In  his  agony  of  self-accusation 

he  spared  her  no  circumstance,  no  petty  detail :  bit  by  bit  he 

retold  the  whole  story  in  all  its  hideous  inhuman  ghastliness— 

the  walk  to  Orfordness,  the  finding  of  the  watch,  the  furtive 

visit  to  Elsie's  grave,  his  horror  of  Winifred's  proposed  picnic 

to  that  very  spot  a  year  later.    He  ran,  unabashed,  in  an  ecstasy 

of  humiliation,  through  the  entire  tale  of  his  forgeries  and  his 

deceptions:  the  sending  of  the  ring;  the  audacious  fiction  of 

Elsie's  departure  to  a  new  home  in  Australia:  the  long  sequence 

of  occasional  letters;  the  living  lie  he  had  daily  and  hourly 

acted  before  her.    And  all  the  while,  as  ho  truly  said,  with 

slow  tears  rolling  one  by  one  down  his  dark  cheeks,  he  knew 

himself  a  murderer:  he  felt  himself  a  murderer;  and  all  the 


LETRIBUTION. 


255 


^liile,  poor  Elsie  was  lying,  dishonoured  and  unknown,  a  name- 
less coipse,  in  her  pauper  grave  upon  that  stormy  sand-pit. 

Oh,  the  joy  and  relief  of  that  tardy  confession!  the  gush  and 
flow  of  those  pent-up  feelings !  For  three  long  years  and  more, 
ho  had  locked  it  all  up  in  his  inmost  soul,  chafing  and  seething 
with  the  awful  Fccret;  and  now  at  last  he  had  let  it  all  out,  iu 
one  burst  of  confidence,  to  the  uttermost  item. 

As  for  Winifred,  she  heard  him  out  in  solemn  silence  to  the 
bitter  end,  with  ever  growing  contempt  and  shame  and  hatred. 
She  could  not  lift  her  eyes  to  his  face,  so  much  his  very  earnest- 
ness horrified  and  appalled  her.  The  man's  aptitude  for  lying 
struck  her  positively  dumb.  The  hideous  ingenuity  with  which 
he  accounted  for  everything — the  dialwlically  clever  way  in 
which  he  had  woven  in,  one  after  the  other,  the  ring,  the  watch, 
the  letters,  the  picnic,  the  lonely  tramp  to  Orfordness— sraoto 
her  to  the  heart  with  a  horrible  loathing  for  the  vile  wretch  she 
had  consented  to  marry.  That  she  had  endured  so  long  such 
a  miserable  creature's  bought  caresses  tilled  her  inmost  soul 
with  a  sickening  sense  of  disgust  and  horror.  She  cowered  and 
crouched  closer  and  closer  in  her  remote  corner :  she  ff^lt  that 
his  presence  there  actually  polluted  the  carriage  she  occupied ; 
she  longed  for  Marseilles,  for  San  Eerao,  for  release,  that  she 
might  get  at  least  farther  and  farther  away  from  liim.  She 
could  almost  have  opened  the  door  in  her  access  of  horror  and 
jumped  from  the  train  while  still  in  motion,  so  intense  was  her 
burning  and  goading  desire  to  escape  for  ever  from  his  poisonous 
neighbourhood. 

At  lasit,  as  Hugh  with  flashed  face  and  enger  eyes  calmed 
down  a  little  from  his  paroxysm  of  self-abasement  and  self- 
revelation,  Winifred  raised  her  eyes  once  more  from  the  ground 
and  met  her  husband's — ah,  heaven ! — that  she  should  have  to 
call  that  thing  her  husband!  His  acting  chilled  her;  his  pre- 
tended tears  turned  her  cold  with  scorn.  "Is  that  all?"  sho 
asked  in  an  icy  voice.    "  Is  your  romance  finished  ?  " 

"  That's  all  1 "  Hugh  cried,  burying  his  face  in  his  hnnds  and 
bending  down  his  body  to  the  level  of  his  knoes  in  utter  and 
abject  self-humiliation.  "  Winifred !  Winifred !  it's  no  romance. 
Won't  you,  even  now,  even  now  bclievo  meV" 

"It's  clever — clever — extremely  clever!"  ^\'inifred  answered 
in  a  tone  of  unnatural  calmness.  "I  don't  deny  it  shows  great 
talent.  If  you'd  turned  your  attention  seriously  to  novel- 
writing,  which  is  your  proper  metier,  instead  of  to  the  law, 
lor  which  you've  too  exuberant  an  imagination,  you'd  have 
succeeded  ten  thousand  times  bettor  there  than  you  could  ever 
do  at  what  you're  pleased  to  consider  your  divine  poetry.  Your 
story,  I  allow,  hangs  together  in  every  part  with  remarkable 
fikill.    It's  a  pity  I  should  happen  to  know  it  all  from  beginning 


256 


THIS  MORTAL  COIL, 


<'l 


to  end  for  a  tissue  of  falselioorla. — Hugh,  you're  the  profoundcsfc 
find  most  eminent  of  liars. — I've  known  people  before  who  would 
tell  a  lie  to  serve  theii'  owa  ends,  when  there  was  anything  to 
gain  by  it. — I've  known  people  before  wlio,  when  a  lie  or  the 
truth  would  either  of  them  suit  their  purpose  equally,  told  the 
lie  by  preference  out  of  pure  love  of  it. — But  I've  never  till  to- 
night met  anybofly  on  earth  who  would  tell  a  lie  for  the  mere 
lie's  sake,  to  make  himself  look  even  more  utterly  mean  and 
despicable  and  small  than  he  is  by  nature. — You've  done  that. 
You've  reached  that  unsurpassed  depth  of  duplicity.  You've 
delibL'rately  invented  a  clever  tissue  of  concerted  lies — even  you 
yourself  couldn't  fit  them  all  in  so  neat  and  pat  on  the  spur  of 
the  moment — you  must  have  worked  your  romance  up  by  careful 
stages  in  your  own  mind  beforehand— and  all  for  what?  To 
prove  yourself  innocent?  Oh  no;  not  at  all  1  but  to  make  your- 
self out  even  worse  than  you  are — a  liar,  a  forger,  and  all  but 
a  murderer. — I  loathe  you;  I  despise  you. — For  all  your  acting, 
you  know  you're  lying  to  mo  even  now,  this  minute.  You  know 
that  Elsie  Challoner,  whom  you  pretend  to  be  dead,  is  awaiting 
your  own  arrival  to-night  by  arrangement  at  San  Eemo." 

Hugh  flung  himself  back  in  the  final  extremity  of  utter 
despair  on  the  padded  cushions.  Ho  had  played  his  last  card 
witii  Winifred,  and  lost.  His  very  remorse  availed  him  nothing. 
His  very  confession  was  held  to  increase  his  ein.  What  could 
he  do?  Whither  turn?  He  knew  no  answer.  He  rocked  him- 
self up  and  down  on  his  seat  in  hopeless  misery.  The  worst 
hiid  conio.  He  had  blurted  out  all.  And  Winifred,  Winifred 
would  not  believe  him. 

"  I  wish  it  was  true ! "  he  cried ;  "I  wish  it  was  true,  Winnie! 
I  wish  she  was  there.    But  it  isn't;  it  isn't!    She's  dead!    I 
killed  her!  and  her  blood  has  weighed  upon  my  head  ever 
since !    I  pay  for  it  now !    I  killed  her !    I  killed  her ! " 
"  Listen ! " 

Winifred  had  risen  to  her  full  height  in  the  coupe  once  more, 
and  was  standing,  gaunt  and  haggard  and  deadly  wan  like  a 
shrunken  little  tragedy  queen  above  him.  Her  pale  white  face 
showed  paler  and  whiter  and  more  deatli-like  still  by  the  feeble 
light  of  tiie  struggling  oil-lamp;  and  her  bloodless  lips  trembled 
and  quivered  visibly  with  inner  passion  as  she  tried  to  repress  her 
overpowering  indignation  with  one  masterful  effort.  *'  Listen ! " 
slie  said,  with  fierce  intensity.  **  What  you  say  is  false.  I 
know  you're  lying  to  me.  Warren  Eelf  told  mo  himself  the 
other  dny  in  London  that  Elsie  Challoner  was  still  alive,  and 
living,  where  you  know  she  lives,  over  there  at  San  Eemo." 

Warren  Relf!  That  serpent!  That  reptile!  That  eaves- 
dropper! Then  this  was  the  creature's  mean  revenge!  He  had 
lied  that  despicable  lie  to  Winifred!    Hugh  hated  him  in  his 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  SHIELD. 


257 


soul  more  fiercely  than  ever.  He  was  baffled  once  m(^ro;  and 
always  by  that  same  malignant  intriguer! 

"  Where  did  yon  see  P.elf?  "  he  burst  out  angrily.  His  indig- 
nation, flaring  up  to  white-heat  afresh  at  this  latest  niacliina- 
tion  of  his  ancient  enemy,  gave  new  strength  to  his  wortls  nnd 
new  point  to  his  liatitd.  "I  thought- 1  told  you  long  since  at 
Whitestiand  to  hold  no  further  communication  with  that 
wretched  being ! " 

But  Winifred  by  this  time,  worn  out  with  excitement,  had 
fallen  back  speechless  and  helpless  on  the  cushions.  Her  feeble 
strength  was  fiiii  ly  exhausted.  The  fatigue  of  the  preparations, 
the  stormy  passage,  the  long  spoil  of  travelling,  tlie  night 
journey,  and,  added  to  it  nil,  this  terrible  interview  with  the 
man  she  had  once  loved,  but  now  despised  and  hated,  had 
proved  too  much  in  the  end  for  her  weakened  constitution. 
A  fit  of  wild  incoherence  had  overtaken  ler;  she  babbled  idly 
on  her  seat  in  broken  sentences.  Her  muttered  words  were  full 
of  "mother"  and  "  home"  and  "Elsie."  Hugh  felt  her  pulse. 
He  knew  it  was  delirium.  His  one  thought  now  wns  to  reach 
San  Kemo  as  quickly  as  possible.  If  only  she  could  live  to 
know  Warren  Relf  had  told  her  a  lie,  and  that  Elsie  was  dead 
— dead — dead  and  buried ! 

Perhaps  even  this  story  about  Warren  Relf  and  what  he  had 
told  her  was  itself  but  a  product  of  the  fever  and  delirium ! 
But  more  probably  not.  The  man  who  could  open  other  people's 
letters,  the  man  who  could  p'ot  and  plan  and  intrigue  in  secret 
to  set  another  man's  wife  ngainst  her  own  husband,  was  capable 
of  telling  any  lie  that  came  uppermost  to  hurt  his  enemy  and 
to  serve  his  purpose.  He  knew  that  lie  would  distress  and 
torture  Winifred,  and  he  had  struck  at  Hugh,  like  a  coward 
that  he  was,  through  a  weak,  hysterical,  dying  won)an!  Ho 
had  played  on  the  moan  cliord  of  feminine  jealousy.  Hugh 
hated  him  as  he  had  never  hated  him  before.  He  should  jmy 
for  this  touudly — the  cur,  the  scoundrel  I 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 


eaves- 
He  had 
in  his 


THE   OTHKB  BIDE   OF   TUE   SHIELD. 

That  self-same  night,  another  Englis'i  passenger  of  our  acquaint- 
ance was  spee  ling  in  hot  haste  due  f  outhward  to  San  Ronio,  not 
indeed  by  the  Calais  and  Marseilles  express,  but  by  the  rival 
route  via  Boulogne,  the  Mont  Cenis,  Turin,  and  Savcma.  Warren 
lielf  had  chosen  the  alternative  road  by  deliberate  design,  lest 


i, '  ■■>■  i. 


* 


2G3 


THIS  MOnTAL   COIL. 


4 


Hugh  Massinger  and  he  should  happen  to  clash  by  the  way,  and 
R  needless  and  unseemly  scone  should  perhaps  take  place  before 
Winifred's  very  eyes  at  some  intermediate  station. 

It  was  by  the  merest  accident  in  the  world,  indeed,  that 
Warron  lia(l  heard,  in  the  nick  of  opportunity,  of  the  Mas- 
singers*  ])rojected  visit  to  San  Itemo.  i'or  some  weeks  before, 
busy  with  the  "boom,"  he  had  hardly  ever  dropped  in  for  a 
gossip  at  ]iis  chib  in  i'iccadilly.  Already  he  had  sent  off  his 
mother  and  sister  to  the  Riviera — this  time,  too,  much  to  his 
pride  and  delight,  minus  the  wonted  dead-weight  cargo  of  con- 
Bumptivc  pupils — and  being  thus  left  entirely  to  his  own  devices 
at  128,  Bletcliingley  lload,  he  had  occupied  every  moment  of  his 
crowded  day  with  some  good  hard  work  in  finishing  sketches 
and  toucliing  up  pictures  commissioned  in  advance  from  his 
summer  studies,  before  setting  out  himself  for  winter  quarters. 
But  on  the  particular  night  when  Hugh  Massinger  came  up  to 
town  en  route  for  the  sunny  South  with  Winifred,  Warren  l!elf, 
having  completed  a  fiiir  day's  work  for  a  fair  day's  wage  in  his  own 
studio — he  was  fnfilling  an  enga  ,ement  to  enlarge  a  sketch  of 
the  Martellos  at  Aldcburgb  for  some  Sheffield  cutlery-duko  or 
some  Manchester  cotten-marquis— strolled  round  in  the  evening 
for  a  cigar  and  a  chat  ou  the  comfortable  lounges  of  the  Mother 
of  Genius. 

In  the  ca<?y  smoking-room  at  the  Cheyne  Row  Club,  he  found 
Hatherlcy  already  installed  in  a  big  armchair,  discussing  coffee 
and  the  last  new  number  of  the  Nineteenth  Century. 

"Hnllo,  Relf!  The  remains  of  the  Bard  were  in  here  just 
now,"  Hatlierley  exclaimed  as  he  entered.  "You've  barely 
missed  him.  If  you'd  dropped  in  only  ten  minutes  earlier,  you 
might  have  inspected  the  interesting  relics.  But  he's  gone  back 
to  his  hotel  by  this  time,  I  fancy.  The  atmosphere  of  Cheyne 
Row  seems  somewhat  too  redolent  of  vulgar  Cavendish  for  his 
refined  taste.  He  smokes  nothing  nowadays  himself  but  the 
best  regalias ! " 

"What,  Massinger?"  Relf  cried  in  some  slight  surprise. 
**  How  was  lie,  Hatherley,  and  what  w  as  ho  doing  in  town  at 
this  time  of  year  ?  All  good  squires  ought  surely  to  bo  down  in 
the  country  now  at  their  hcie.ditary  work  of  supplying  the 
market  with  a  duo  proportion  of  hares  and  partridges." 

"  Oh,  he's  a  poor  wreck,"  Hatherley  answered  liglitly.  "  You've 
hit  it  olf  exactly — sunk  to  the  level  of  the  landed  aristoci'»cy. 
He  exhales  an  aroma  of  vested  interests.  Real  estate's  his  ^loloch 
at  present,  and  ho  bows  the  knee  to  solidified  sea-mud  in  the 
temple  of  Rimmon.  He  has  no  views  on  anything  in  particular, 
I  believe,  but  riparian  proprietorship  :  complains  still  of  the 
German  Ocean  for  disregarding  the  sacred  rights  of  property  ; 
and  holds  that  the  sole  business  of  an  enlightened  British  Icgisla- 


THE   OTHER  SIDE   OF  THE  SHIELD. 


259 


ture  is  to  keep  the  sand  from  blowing  in  at  his  own  inviolable 
dining-room  windows.  Poor  company,  in  fact,  since  ho  descended 
to  the  Squirearchy.  He's  never  forgiven  me  that  playful  little 
bantering  ballade  of  mine,  either,  that  I  sent  to  tho  Charing 
Cross  Ji'eview,  you  remember,  eliaffing  him  about  liis  'Life's  Tom- 
foolery,' or  whatever  else  lie  called  tho  precious  nonsen.-o.  For 
my  part,  I  hate  such  vai»id  narrowness.  A  man  should  be  able 
to  bear  chaff  with  good-huinour.  Talk  about  the  fjenus  irritahile, 
ind(  ed :  your  poet  should  feel  himself  superior  to  vindictiveness 
— '  Dowured  with  the  love  of  love,  tlie  hate  of  liate,  tho  scoin  of 
scorn,'  as  a  distinguished  peer  admirably  words  it." 

"  ilow  long's  he  going  to  stop  in  town— do  you  know?  "  Relf 
asked  curiously. 

"  Thank  goodness,  he's  not  going  to  stop  at  all,  my  dear 
fullow.  If  he  were,  I'd  run  down  to  Brighton  for  the  interval. 
A  month  of  Massinger  at  the  CIk  yne  Kosv  would  be  a  perfect 
harvest  for  the  seaside  lodgings.  But  I'm  happy  to  tell  you  he's 
going  to  remove  his  mortal  rcniiiins — for  the  sunl  of  him's  dead 
— dead  and  buried,  long  ago,  in  the  Whitestrand  sandhills— to 
^an  Kenio  to-morrow.  Poor  little  Mrs.  Massinger's  seriously  ill, 
I'm  sorry  to  say.  Too  much  Bard  has  told  at  last  upon  her. 
Iiard  lor  breakfast,  l>ard  for  lunch,  and  Bard  for  dinner  would 
undermine  in  time  the  soundest  constitution.  Sir  Anthony  finds 
it's  produced  in  her  case  suppressed  gout,  or  tubercular  diathe- 
sis, or  softening  of  the  brain,  or  something  lingering  and  humor- 
ous of  that  sort;  and  he's  ordered  her  off,  post  haste,  by  the  first 
express,  to  the  Mediterranenn.  Massinger  objected  at  first  to 
San  Ktmo,  he'  tells  me,  probably  because,  with  his  usual  bad 
taste,  he  didn't  desire  to  enjoy  your  agreeable  society ;  but  that 
skimpy  little  woman,  gout  or  no  gout,  has  a  will  of  her  own,  I 
can  tell  you;  San  Kemo  she  insists  upon,  and  to  San  Kemo  the 
Bard  must  go  accordingly.  You  should  have  seen  him  dialing 
with  an  internal  fire  as  he  let  it  all  out  to  us,  hint  by  hint,  in 
the  billiard-room  this  evening.  Poor  skimpy  little  woman, 
though,  I'm  awfully  sorry  for  her.  It's  hard  lines  on  her.  She 
had  the  makings  of  a  nice  small  -hostess  in  her  once ;  but  the 
Bard's  ruined  her — sucked  her  dry  and  chucked  her  away — and 
Blie's  dying  of  him  now,  from  what  he  tells  me." 

Warren  Belf  looked  back  with  a  start  of  astonishment.  "  To 
San  Kemo'?"  he  cried.  "You're  sure,  Uatherley,  he  said  San 
Kemo?" 

"Perfectly  certain.  San  Berao  it  is.  Observe,  hi  presto,, 
there's  no  deception.  He  gave  me  this  card  iu  case  of  error : 
*Hugh  Massinger,  for  the  present,  Foste  Kestante,  San  Eemo.' 
No  other  address  forthcoming  as  yet.  He  expects  to  settle  down 
at  a  villa  when  he  gets  there." 

Belf  made  up  his  mind  with  a  single  i)lunge  as  he  knocked 


200 


Tlliyi  MORTAL   COIL. 


I  \ 


his  nfih  off.    "  I  shall  go  by  to-morrow's  express  to  the  Riviera," 
ho  said  sliortly. 

"To  pursuo  the  Burd?  I  wouldn't,  if  I  were  you.  To  toll 
you  the  truth,  I  know  ho  docsu't  love  you." 

"lie  has  reason,  I  believe.  Tho  fcclinpf  is  to  sdhio  oxKiit 
mutual.  No,  not  to  pursue  hira — to  prevent  mischief. —  Hand 
me  over  the  Continental  Bradsliaw,  will  you? — Thanks.  'I  hat 'II 
do.  Do  you  knov;  wliioh  line?  Marseilles,  I  suppose ?  Did  he 
happen  to  mention  it  ?  " 

"  Ho  told  me  he  was  goinc:  by  Dijon  and  Lyons." 

"  All  right.  That's  it.  The  Marseilles  route.  Arrive  at  Rmu 
Remo  at  4.30.  I'll  go  round  tho  other  way  by  Turin  and  inter- 
cept him.  Trains  arrive  within  five  minutes  of  one  another,  I 
Bee.    That'll  be  just  in  time  to  prevent  any  contretemps" 

"Your  people  are  at  San  Hemo  already,  1  believe?" 

"My  people — yes.  But  how  did  you  know?  Thoy  were  at 
Mentone  for  a  while,  and  lliey  on'y  went  on  home  to  tho  Villa 
Ikossa  the  day  before  yesterday." 

"So  I  heard  from  IMiss  i.'elf,"  Hatherloy  answered  with  a 
slight  cough.  "She  happened  to  bo  writing  to  me — about  a 
literary  matter — a  mere  question  of  current  art-criticism— ou 
Wednesday  morning." 

Warren  hardly  noticed  the  slight  hesitation  :  and  there  was 
nothing  odd  in  Edio'a  writing  to  1  herley :  that  best  of 
listers  was  always  jogging  the  ■ncmoiy  of  inattentive  critics. 
While  Edie  lived,  indeed,  her  brother's  name  was  never  likely 
to  be  forgotten  in  the  weekly  organs  of  artistic  opinion,  bho 
insured  it,  if  anything,  an  undue  prominence.  For  her  much 
importunity,  the  sternest  of  them  all,  like  the  unjust  judge, 
was  compelled  in  time  to  notice  every  one  of  her  brother's 
performances. 

So  Warren  hurried  off  by  himself  at  all  speed  to  San  Remo, 
and  reached  it  at  almost  tho  same  moment  as  Massinger.  If 
Hugh  and  Elsie  were  to  meet  unexpectedly,  Warren  felt  tho 
shock  might  be  positively  dangerous. 

As  he  emerged  from  the  station,  he  hired  a  close  carriage,  and 
ordered  the  vetturino  to  drasv  up  on  the  far  side  of  the  road  and 
wait  a  few  minutes  till  he  was  prepared  for  starting,  Then  he 
leaned  back  in  his  se  it  in  the  shade  of  the  hood,  and  held  himself 
in  readiness  for  the  arrival  of  the  Paris  train  from  Ventimiglia. 

He  had  waited  only  a  quarter  of  an  hour  when  Hugh  Mas- 
singer  came  out  hastily  and  called  a  cab.  Two  porters  helped 
him  to  carry  out  Winifred,  now  seriously  ill,  and  muttering  inar- 
ticulately as  they  placed  her  in  the  carriage.  Hugh  pave  an 
inaudible  order  to  the  driver,  who  drove  off  at  once  with  a  nod 
and  a  smile  and  a  cheery  "  Si,  signer."' 

"  FqIIovv  that  carriage  1 "  Warren  said  in  Ital.an  to  his  own 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  SHIELD. 


261 


own 


oaltman.  The  driver  riofldcd  and  followed  closely.  Thoy  drove 
up  thro\ifj;h  tlie  narrow  crowded  little  streets  of  tlio  old  (inarter, 
and  stoiiped  at  last  opposite  a  largo  and  dingy  yellow-washed 
pension,  in  the  modern  part  of  the  town,  about  the  middle  of  the 
Avenue  Vittorio-Kmmanuclo.  The  house  was  new,  but  con;:eni- 
tally  shabby.  Hugh's  carriage  blocked  the  way  already.  Warren 
waited  outside  for  some  ten  minutes  without  showing  his  face, 
till  he  thought  the  Massingers would  have  engaged  rooms:  then 
he  entered  the  hall  boMly  and  in-iuinul  if  he  could  have 
lodgings. 

"  On  what  floor  has  the  genth^man  who  has  just  arrived  placed 
himself?"  he  asked  of  the  landlord,  a  portly  Piedmoutose,  of 
august  dimensions. 

"  On  the  second  story,  signor." 

"Then  I  will  go  on  the  third,"  Warren  Relf  answered  with 
short  decision.  And  they  found  liim  a  room  forthwith  without 
further  parley. 

The  jjomon  was  one  of  those  large  ar.d  massive  solid  build- 
ings, so  common  on  the  IJiviera,  let  out  in  flats  or  in  single 
apartments,  and  with  a  deep  well  of  a  square  staircase  occupy- 
ing the  entire  centre  cf  the  block  like  a  covered  courtyard.  As 
Warren  Uelf  mounted  to  his  room  on  the  third  floor,  with  the 
chatty  Swiss  waiter  from  the  canton  Ticino,  who  carried  his  bag, 
he  asked  quietly  if  the  lady  on  the  serjondo  who  seemed  so  ill  was 
in  any  immedidt  i  or  pressing  danger. 

"  Danger,  signor  ?  She  is  ill,  certainly ;  they  carried  her  up- 
stairs :  slio  couldn't  have  walk(  d  it.  Ill — l)ut  ill."  He  expanded 
his  hands  and  pursed  his  lips  up. — **  But  what  of  that?  The 
house  expects  it.  They  come  hero  to  die,  many  of  these  English. 
The  signora  no  doubt  will  die  soon.  She's  a  very  bad  case.  She 
has  hardly  any  life  in  her." 

Little  reassured  by  this  cold  comfort,  Warren  sat  down  at  the 
table  at  once,  as  soon  as  he  had  washed  away  the  dust  of  travel, 
and  scribbled  off  a  hasty  note  to  Edic — 

"Dearkst  E., 

"  Just  arrived.  Hope  yon  received  my  telegram  from 
Paris.  For  heaven's  sake,  don't  let  Elsie  stir  out  of  the  house 
till  I  have  seen  you.  This  is  most  imperative.  Massinger 
and  Mrs.  Massinger  are  here  at  this  jx-nsion.  He  has  brought 
her  South  for  lier  health's  gakc.  Julie's  dying  rapidly.  I 
wouldn't  for  worlds  let  Elsie  see  either  of  them  in  their  pre- 
sent condition:  above  all  she  mustn't  run  up  against  them 
unexpectedly.  1  may  not  be  able  to  sneak  round  to-night, 
but  at  at  all  hazards  keep  Elsie  in  till  I  can  get  to  the  Villa 
Eossa  to  consult  with  you.  Elsit  must  of  courv^e  return  to 
England  at  once,  now  Massinger's  come  here.      We  have  to 


2G2 


THIS  MORTAL   COIL. 


J«l!f(  ■ 


fnco  a  very  porioiis  crisis.     I  won't  writo  fiirlluT,   proferriitf; 
to  coiiK!  iiiid  (vrr.iiifie  in  person.      JMoanwliilo,  t-ay   nothing  to 
Elbio  just  yet;  I'll  brealc  it  to  licr  myself. 
"  lu  brc.'itliless  hasto, 

*'  YourtJ  tver,  very  affectionately, 

"  Wauken." 

Tie  sent  ilio  note  round  with  ninny  warninps  by  tlie  Swiss 
waiter  to  his  mother's  house.  When  Edie  ^oi  it,  she  could  have 
cried  witii  cliagrin.  Could  anything  on  earth  liavo  heen  more 
unfortunate  ?  To  think  that  Elsie  should  just  have  gone  out 
shopping  before  the  note  arrived— and  should  be  pohig  to  call 
at  the  Grand  Hotel  Eoyal  in  that  very  Avenue  Vittorio- 
Emmanuolc! 

If  Warren  had  only  known  that  fact,  he  would  have  pone  ont 
at  all  risks  to  intercei)t  and  pievont  her.  But  as  things  stoo'l, 
he  ])refcrrcd  to  lurk  unseen  on  his  third  floor  till  night  came  on. 
IIo  waiited  to  keep  as  quiet  as  possible.  lie  didn't  wish  Mas- 
.-.iiger  to  know,  for  the  present  at  least,  of  his  arrival  in  San 
]  onio.  Later  on,  peihai)s,  when  Elsie  had  safely  started  for 
England,  ho  might  see  whether  he  could  bo  of  any  service  to 
Winifred. 

And  to  Hugh  too ;  for  in  spite  of  all,  though  ho  had  told 
Ratherley  their  dislike  was  mutual,  ho  pitied  Massinger  too 
profoundly  now  not  to  forget  his  righteous  resentment  at  such 
a  moment.  If  Warren's  experience  and  connection  at  San 
Eemo  were  of  any  avail,  he  would  gladly  place  them  at 
Massinger's  disposal.  Too  manly  himself  to  harbour  a  grudge, 
ho  scarcely  recognized  the  existence  of  vindictive  feeling  in 
others. 

Warren  Eolf!  That  serpent!  That  reptile!  That  eaves- 
dropper !  How  strangely  each  of  us  looks  to  each!  How  gro- 
tesquely our  perverted  inner  mirror,  with  its  twists  and  curves, 
distorts  and  warps  the  lineaments  of  our  fellows!  Warren 
Eelf  1  That  implacable  malignant  enemy,  for  ever  plotting  and 
planning  and  caballing  against  him  !  Wliy,  Warren  Keif,  whom 
Hugh  so  imaged  himself  in  his  angry  mind,  was  sitting  that 
moment  with  his  head  bent  down  to  the  bare  table,  and  mutter- 
ing half  aloud  through  his  teeth  to  himself:  "Poor,  poor 
Massinger!  How  hard  for  him  to  bear!  Alone  with  that 
unhai)])y  little  dying  soul!  Without  one  friend  to  share  his 
trouble  1    I  wish  I  could  do  anything  on  earth  to  help  himl  '* 


to 


i 


CriAPTEIl  XXXVTI. 


rilOVINd    Ills   CASS. 


At  tho  pfipn'on,  Fluj;li  liftd  nnjia^jcd  in  li.isto  a  dull  private 
Rittiiig-rooiii  on  tlio  second  floor,  with  l)U(lr())'n  imd  drossin^'- 
room  adjoinintr  at  the  side;  nnd  lioro  he  laid  Winifred  down  on 
tlio  liorsc-li.iir  sofa,  wearied  ont  wiili  lior  lont;  jonrney  and  hur 
tit  of  delirium,  bnt  now  restored  for  tho  time  bein^  by  rest  and 
food,  in  one  of  those  marvel  Ions  momentary  rallies  which  kg 
often  tempt  ''onsnmptivo  patients  to  nso  up  in  a  single  (lyin;^' 
flicker  their  small  remaining  reserve  of  vital  energy.  Tho 
house  it'^elf  was  dingy,  stingy,  bare,  and  seeon<l  rate;  bnt  tho 
poft  Italian  air  and  the  fnll  sunshine  that  floDiled  tho  room 
through  the  open  windows  had  a  certain  false  exhilarating 
effect,  like  a  ghiss  of  chami)agni;;  and  under  their  stimulating 
influence  Winifred  felt  a  temporary  strentith  to  which  she  had 
long  been  quite  unaccustomed.  Tho  waiter  had  brought  her  up 
refreshments  on  a  tray,  souj)  and  swe(!tbnads  and  country  wine 
— the  plain  sound  generous  Ligurian  claret — and  sho  had  oaten 
and  drunk  with  an  apparent  avitlity  which  fairly  took  her 
husband's  breath  away.  The  food  8ui»plied  her  with  a  sudden 
access  of  hectic  energy.  "  Wheel  me  over  to  the  window,"  sho 
cried  in  a  stronger  voice  to  Hugh.  And  Hugh  wheeled  the  sofa 
over  as  he  was  bid  to  a  point  wliere  she  could  see  the  town  and 
the  hills  and  tlu*  villas  ami  the  lemon-gardens,  and  the  tall 
date-palms  with  tlu^ir  featliery  fo'iage  on  tho  i)iazza  opposite, 
to  t'^o  2obalt-blue  Rea,  and  tlio  gracious  bays,  and  the  endless 
ranges  of  the  "Maritime  Aljis  on  eillvv  side,  towards  Bordighera 
one  way  and  Taggia  tho  other 

It  was  beautiful,  bcautife' .  v^y  b'  r-.Ttiful.  For  tho  moment, 
the  sight  soothed  Winifred,  Sli  ■  '•  s  -ontent  now  to  die  where 
she  lay.  Her  wounded  iKart  a.-  r- d  nothing  further  from 
unkind  fortune.  She  It  ivii  up  ut  <.iOV  husband  with  a  stony 
gaze.  "Hugh,"  she  ^iuJ,  iu  ;l!i..  but  grimly  resolute  tones, 
with  no  trace  of  tenderness  or  softening  in  her  voice,  "  bury  me 
hero.  I  like  the  place.  Don't  try  to  take  me  home  in  a  box  to 
Whitcstrand." 

Her  very  callousness,  if  callousness  it  cere,  cut  him  to  tho 
heart.  That  so  young  and  frail  and  delicate  a  girl  should  talk 
of  her  own  death  with  such  seeming  insensibility  was  indeed 
terrible.  The  proud  hard  man  was  broken  at  last.  Shame  and 
remorse  touched  his  soul.  He  burst  into  tears,  and  kneeling  by 
her  side,  tried  to  take  her  hand  with  some  passing  show  of 


|;H 


ii' 


264 


THIS  MOliTAL   COIL. 


affection  in  his.  Winifred  withdrew  it,  coldlv  and  silently,  as 
his  own  approached  it.  "  Winnie,"  he  cried.  Lending  over  her 
ftice,  "  I  don't  ask  you  to  forgive  me.  You  can't  forgive  mo. 
You  could  never  forgive  me  for  the  wrong  I've  done  you.  But 
I  do  ask  you,  from  my  f?oul  I  do  ask  you,  in  this  last  extremity, 
to  believe  me  and  to  listen  to  me.  I  did  not  lie  to  you  last 
night.  It  was  all  true,  what  I  told  you  in  the  coupe.  I've 
never  intrigued  against  you  in  the  way  you  believe.  I've  never 
deceived  you  for  the  purpose  you  suppose.  I've  treated  you 
cruelly,  heartlessly,  wickedly^I  acknowledge  that;  but  oli. 
Win.  lie,  Winnie,  I  can't  bear  you  to  die  as  you  will,  believing 
what  you  do  believe  about  me. — Tliis  is  the  hnrdest  part  of  all 
ray  punishment.  Don't  leave  me  so  I  My  wife,  my  wife,  don't 
kill  me  with  this  coldness  1 " 

Winifred  looked  over  at  him  more  stonily  than  ever. 
*'  Hugh,"  she  said  with  a  very  slow  .md  distinct  utterance, 
*'  every  word  you  say  to  me  in  this  hateful  strain  only  increases 
and  deepens  my  loathing  and  contempt  for  you. — You  see  I'm 
dying — you  know  I'm  dying.  In  your  way,  I  really  and  truly 
believe  you  feel  some  tiny  twinge  of  compunction,  some  faint 
sort  of  pity  and  regret  and  sympathy  for  me.  You  know  you've 
killed  me,  broken  my  heart;  and  in  a  careless  fashion,  you're 
rather  sorry  for  it.  If  you  knew  how,  you'd  like,  without 
bothering  yourself  much,  to  console  me.  And  yet,  to  lio  is  so 
ingrained  in  the  very  warp  and  woof  of  your  nature,  that  even 
so,  you  can't  help  lying  to  me  I  You  can't  help  lying  to  your 
own  wife,  at  death's  door,  in  her  last  extremity — your  own  wife, 
whom  you've  slowly  ground  down  and  worn  out  with  your 
treachery — your  own  wife,  whom  you've  betrayed  and  tortured 
and  killed  at  last  for  that  other  woman  ! — Don't  I  know  it  all, 
so  that  you  can't  deceive  me  ?  Don't  I  know  every  thought  and 
wish  of  your  heart  ?  Don't  I  know  how  you've  kept  her  letters 
and  her  watch?  Don't  I  know  how  you've  brooded  and  moaned 
and  whispered  about  her?  Don't  I  know  how  you've  brought 
me  to  San  Rcmo  to-day,  dying  as  I  am,  to  be  near  her  and  to 
caress  her  when  I'm  dead  and  buried? — You've  tried  to  hound 
me  antl  to  drive  me  to  my  grave,  that  you  might  marry  Elsie. — 
You've  tried  to  murder  me  by  slow  degrees,  that  you  might 
niarry  Elsie. — Well,  you've  carried  your  point :  you've  succeeded 
at  last. — You've  killed  me  now,  or  as  good  as  killed  me;  and 
when  I'm  deal  and  gone,  you  can  marry  Elsie. — I  don't  mind 
that.  Marry  her  and  be  done  with  it. — But  if  ever  you  dare  to 
tell  me  again  that  lying  story  you  concocted  last  night  so  glibly 
in  the  coitpe, — Hugh  Massiuger,  I'll  tell  you  in  earnest  what  I'll 
do:  I'll  jump  out  of  that  window  before  your  very  face  and  dash 
myself  to  pieces  on  the  ground  in  front  of  you." 

She  spoke  with  feverish  and  lurid  energy.    Hugh  Massinger 


PROVING  HIS  CASE. 


2G5 


your 


tlsie. — 
naighfc 
iceecicd 
|e;  and 
mind 
Ida  re  to 
glibly 
Ihat  I'll 
id  dash 

Issinger 


bent  his  head  to  his  knees  in  abject  wretchedness  as  she  flung 
tliat  tlireat  from  her  clenched  teeth  at  him.  His  very  remorse 
availed  him  nothing.  The  girl  was  adamantine,  inexorable, 
impervious  to  evidence.  Nothing  on  earth  that  he  could  say  or 
do  would  possibly  move  her.  lie  lelt  himself  unjustly  treated 
now ;  and  he  pitied  Winifred. 

•'  Winifred,  Winifred,  my  poor  wronged  and  injured  Wini- 
fred," he  cried  at  last,  in  another  wild  outburst, "  I  can  do  or  say 
nothing,  I  know,  to  convince  you.  But  one  thing  perhaps  will 
n)ake  you  hesitate  to  disbelieve  me.  Look  here,  Winifred; 
V  itch  me  closely  I" 

A  happy  inspiration  had  come  to  his  aid.  He  brought  over 
the  little  round  table  from  the  corner  ot'  the  room  and  planted 
it  lull  in  front  of  the  so^".*  where  Winifred  was  lying.  Then 
he  Slit  a  chair  close  by  the  side,  and  selecting  a  pen  from  his 
writing-case,  began  to  produce  on  ,i  sheet  of  note-paper,  under 
Winifred's  very  eyes,  some  lines  of  manuscript — in  Elsie's  hand- 
writing. Slowly  and  carefully  he  framed  each  letter  in  poor 
dead  Elsii,'?  bold  and  large-limbed  angular  character.  He 
didn't  need  liOW  any  copy  to  go  by ;  long  practice  had  taught 
him  to  absolute  perfection  each  twist  and  curl  and  flourish  of 
her  pen — the  very  tails  of  her  (7s,  the  black  downstroko  of  her 
/s,  the  peculiar  unsteadiness  of  her  ss  and  her  ws.  Winifred, 
sitting  by  in  haughty  disdain,  protended  not  even  to  notice  his 
strange  proceeding.  But  as  the  tell-tale  letter  grew  on  apace 
beneath  his  practised  pen — Elsie  all  over,  past  human  conceiv- 
ing— she  condescended  at  last,  by  an  occasional  hasty  glimpse  or 
side-glance,  to  manifest  her  interest  in  this  singular  pantomime. 
Hugh  persevered  to  the  end  in  solemn  silence,  and  when  he  had 
finished  the  whole  short  letter,  ho  handed  it  to  her  in  a  sort  of 


subdued  triumph, 
unconcern.    "  JJid 


She  took  it 
any  man  ever 


with  a  gesture  of  supreme 
take  such  pains  before,"  she 


cried  ironically,  as  she  glanced  at  it  with  an  assumption  of  pro- 
i'ound  indifierence, "  to  make  himself  out  to  his  wife  a  liar,  a 
forger,  and  perhaps  a  murdorer ! " 

Hugh  bit  his  lip  with  mcrtitlcation,  and  watched  her  closely. 
The  tables  were  turned.  How  strange  that  ho  should  now  be 
all  eager  anxiety  for  her  to  learn  the  truth  he  had  tried  f-o  long 
and  so  successfully  with  all  his  might  to  conceal  from  her  keen- 
est and  most  prying  scrutiny ! 

Winifred  scanned  the  forged  letter  for  a  minute  with  apparent 
carelessness.  But  as  she  read  and  re-read  it,  in  a  mere  haze  of 
perception,  Fomo  shadow  of  doubt  for  the  first  time  obtruded 
itself  faintly  one  moment  upon  her  unccvfain  soul.  For  Hugh 
had  indeed  chosen  his  specimen  letter  cloverly — ah,  that  hate- 
ful clevijrness  of  his!  how  even  now  it  Lold  with  full  force 
against  him!    When  you  have  to  deal  wiih  so  cunning  a  rogue, 


h  \ 


i"li' 


m 


.  I 


2QQ 


THIS  MORTAL   COIL. 


you  can  never  bo  sure.  The  more  certain  things  seern,  tlie 
more  cause  for  distrusting  tlicm.  Fie  had  written  over  again 
IVorn  memory  the  single  note  of  Elsie's — or  rather  of  his  own  in 
Elsie's  hand — that  Winifred  had  never  happened  at  all  to 
show  him — the  second  note  of  the  series,  the  one  he  despatched 
on  the  day  of  her  fcither's  death.  It  had  reached  her  at 
Invertanar  Castle,  redirected  from  Whitestrand,  two  mornings 
later.  Winifred  had  read  the  few  lines  as  soon  as  tlicy  arrived, 
aud  then  burnt  the  page  in  haste,  in  the  heat  and  flurry  of  that 
tearful  time.  Eut  now,  as  the  letter  lay  before  her  in  lac-simile 
once  more,  the  very  words  and  phrases  came  back  to  her 
memory,  as  thev  had  come  back  to  Hugh's,  with  all  tlie  abnor- 
mal vividness  and  distinctness  of  such  morbid  moments.  Ill  as 
slie  was— nay,  rat'^or  dying — he  had  fairly  aroused  her  feminine 
curiosity.  "  How  did  you  ever  come  to  know  what  Elsie  wrote 
me  that  day?"  she  a^keJ  coldly. 

"  Because  I  wrote  it  myself,"  Hugh  answered  with  an  eager 
forward  movement. 

For  half  a  minute,  Winifred's  soul  was  staggered.  It  looked 
plausible  enough;  he  might  have  forged  it.  Ho  could  fcn-ge 
anything.  Then  with  a  sudden  deep-drawn  "Ah!"  a  fresh 
solution  forced  itself  upon  her  mind.  "You  wretch!"  she 
cried,  holding  her  head  with  her  hands  ;  "  I  see  it  all  now ! 
How  dare  you  lie  to  me?  This  is  worse  than  i  ever  dreamt 
or  conceived.    Elsie  spent  that  week  with  you  in  London  I" 

With  a  loud  groan,  Hugh  flung  himself  back  on  his  vacant 
chair.  His  very  cleverness  had  recoiled  upon  him  with  deadly 
force  again.  The  inference  was  obvious  ! — too,  too,  too 
obvious!  What  other  interpretation  could  Winifred  possibly 
put  upon  the  facts  ?  He  wondered  in  his  heart  he  could  have 
missed  that  easy  solution  himself, 
with  an  agonized  cry.  "She  was 
you — drowned  and  buried  at  Orfordness ! " 

Winifred  looked  hard  at  him,  half  doubtful  still.  Could  any 
man  bo  quite  so  false  and  heartless?  Admirably  as  he  acted, 
could  he  act  like  this?  What  tragedian  had  ever  such  com- 
mand of  his  countenance?  JNliglit  not  that  strange  story  of  his, 
so  pat  and  .straight,  so  consonant  with  the  liuts,  so  neatly 
ad'ip'ed  in  every  detail  to  the  known  circumstances,  perhaps 
atiir  all  be  actually  true?  Could  Elsie  be  really  and  truly 
dtad?  Could  ring  and  letters  and  circumstantial  evidence  have 
fallen  out,  iioi;  as  she  conceived,  but  as  Hugh  ])relendod  ? 

She  hardly  knew  which  tiling  would  m.'ke  her  hate  and 
despise  him  most— the  forgery  or  the  lie:  that  long  deception, 
or  that  secret  intrigue:  his  silent  mourning  over  a  dead  lovo,  or 
his  clandestine  correspondence  with  a  living  lover.  Whichever 
was  worst,  she  -'juld  choose  to  believe;  for  the  wickedest 


"  She  wasn't !  "  he  cried  out 
dead — dead — dead,  I  tell 


PROVING  HIS  CASE. 


267 


Id  any 
acted, 

[of  his, 

neatly 

jei'luips 

ll  truly 

:e  have 

Ite  and 
leption, 
lovo,  or 
jichcviT 
:kedeat 


course  was  likeliest  to  be  the  true  one.  It  was  a  question 
merely  when  lie  had  lied  the  most— now  or  tlun?  to  his  dying 
wife  or  to  his  betrothed  lover?  Winifred  gazed  on  at  liim, 
scorning  and  loathing  him.  "  I  can't  make  my  mind  up,"  she 
muttered  slowly.  "  It's  hard  to  bulievo  that  Elsie's  dead.  But 
for  Elsie's  sake,  I  hope  so !  I  hope  so ! — That  yoiy  iiave 
deceived  me,  I  know  and  am  sure.  That  Elsie's  deceived  me, 
I  should  be  sorry  to  think,  though  I've  often  thought  it.  Your 
story,  incredible  as  it  may  be,  brings  homo  all  the  baseness  and 
cruelty  to  yourself.  It  exculpates  Elsie.  And  I  wish  I  could 
believe  Elsie  was  innocent.  I  could  endure  your  wickedness 
if  only  I  knew  Elsie  didn't  share  it  1 " 

Hugh  leaped  from  his  chair  with  his  hands  chipped. 
"  Believe  what  you  will  about  /ne,"  he  cried.  "  I  dcservo  it  all. 
I  deserve  everything.  But  not  of  litr — not  of  her,  I  beg  of  you. 
Believe  no  ill  of  poor  dead  Klsie  1 " 

Winifred  smiled  a  coldly  satirical  smile.  "  So  much  devotion 
does  you  honour  indeed,"  she  said  in  a  scathing  voice.  "Your 
consideration  for  dead  Elsie's  reputation  is  truly  touching. — i 
only  see  one  Haw  in  the  case.  If  Elsie's  depd,  how  did  Mr. 
Relf  come  to  tell  me,  I  should  like  to  know,  she  was  living  at 
fcSan  Renio  ?  " 

"  Ivelf !  "  Hugh  cried,  taken  aback  once  more.  *'  Eolf !  Always 
that  serpent!  That  wi'iggling,  insinuating,  back-stairs  in- 
triguer! I  hate  the  wretch.  If  I  had  him  here  now,  I'd  wring 
his  wry  neck  for  him  with  the  greatest  pleasure. — He's  at  the 
boitom  of  everything  that  turns  up  against  me.  He  told  you  a 
lie,  that's  the  plain  explanation,  and  he  told  it  to  baffle  me.  Ho 
hates  me,  the  cur,  and  he  wanted  to  make  my  game  harder. 
He  knew  it  would  sow  distrust  between  you  and  me  if  he  told 
yoa  that  lie ;  and  he  had  no  pity,  like  an  unmanly  sneak  that 
he  is,  even  on  a  |  oor  weak  helpless  woman." 

"I  see,"  Winifred  niurmured  with  exapporating  calmness. 
"  He  told  mo  the  truth.  It's  his  habit  to  tell  it.  And  the 
truth  happei.s  to  \>q  very  disconcerting  to  you,  by  making  what 
you're  frank  enough  to  describe  as  your  game  a  little  harder. 
The  word's  sutUciont.  You  can  never  do  anything  but  play  a 
game.  That's  very  clear.  I  understand  now.  1  prefer  i\lr. 
Keif's  assurance  to  yours,  thank  you  !  " 

"  Winifred,"  Hugh  cried,  in  an  agony  of  despair,  "  let  nic  toll 
you  the  whole  story  again,  bit  by  bit,  act  by  aut,  scene  by  scone  " 
—Winifred  smiled  derisively  at  the  theatrical  phrase — "and 
you  may  question  mo  out  on  every  part  of  it.  Cross-examine 
mo,  please,  like  a  hostile  lawyer,  to  the  minutest  detail. — Uh, 
Winnie,  I  want  you  to  know  the  truth  now.  I  wish  you'd 
believe  me.  I  can't  endure  to  think  that  you  should  die 
mistaking  me." 


2G8 


THIS  MORTAL   COIL. 


I 'I  -i' 


ll 


His  implorinj*  look  and  his  evident  earnestness  slioo'ic 
Winifred's  wavering  mind  again.  Even  the  worst  of  men  has 
his  truthful  moments.  Her  resolution  faltered.  !She  began,  as 
he  suggested,  cross-questioning  him  at  full.  Hngh  answered 
every  one  cf  her  questions  at  once  with  prompt  simplicity. 
Tlu)so  answers  had  the  plain  ring  of  reality  about  them.  A 
clever  man  can  lie  ingeniously,  but  ho  can't  lie  on  the  spur  of 
tlio  moment  for  long  together.  Winifred  left  no  test  untried. 
►She  askod  him  as  to  the  arrangement  of  Elsie's  room ;  as  to  the 
things  he  had  purloined  from  the  drawers  and  dressing-table ; 
as  to  her  letters  to  the  supposed  Elsie  in  Australia,  all  of  which 
Hugh  had  of  course  intercepted  and  opened.  Nowhere  for  ono 
moment  did  she  catch  him  tripping.  He  gave  his  replies  plainly 
and  straightforwardly.  The  fever  of  confession  had  seized  hold 
of  him  once  more.  The  pent-up  secret  had  burst  its  bounds. 
He  revealed  his  inmost  soul  to  Winifred — he  even  admitted,  with 
shame  and  agony,  his  abiding  love  and  remorse  for  Elsie. 

Overcome  by  her  feelings,  Winifred  leaned  back  on  the  sofa 
and  cried.  Thank  Heaven,  thank  Heaven,  she  could  cry  now. 
He  was  glad  of  that.  She  could  cry,  after  all.  That  poor  little 
cranipid  and  cabined  nature,  turned  in  upon  itself  so  long  for 
lack  of  an  outlet,  found  vent  at  last.  Hugh  cried  himself,  and 
held  her  baud.  In  her  momentary  impulse  of  womanly  soften- 
ing, she  allowed  him  to  hold  it.  Her  wan  small  face  pleaded 
piteously  with  his  heart.  "  Hare  I,  Winnie  V  "  ho  asked  with 
a  faint  tremor,  and  leaning  forward,  he  kissed  her  forehead. 
tSlie  did  not  withdraw  it.  He  thrilled  at  the  concession.  Then 
he  thouglit  with  a  pang  how  cruelly  he  had  worn  her  young  life 
out.  She  never  reproached  him;  her  feelings  went  far  too  deep 
for  reproach,    iiut  she  cried  silently,  silently,  silently. 

At  length  she  spoke.  "  When  I'm  gone,"  she  said  in  a  fainter 
voice  now, "  you  must  put  up  a  stone  by  Elsie's  grave.  I'm  glad 
Elsie  at  least  was  true  to  me ! " 

Hugh's  heart  gave  a  bound.  Then  she  wavered  at  last !  She 
accepted  his  account!  She  knew  that  Elsie  was  dead  and 
buried!  Ho  had  carried  his  point.  She  believed  him! — suu 
believed  him ! 

Winifred  rose,  and  staggered  feebly  to  her  feet.  "  I  shall  go 
to  bed  now,"  she  said  in  husky  accents.  "  You  may  send  lOr  a 
doctor.  1  shau  t  last  long.  But  on  the  whole,  I  ft  el  better  so. 
I  wanted  Elsie  to  be  alive  indeed,  because  i  hunger  and  thirst 
for  sympathy,  and  Elsie  would  give  it  mo.  But  I'm  glad  at 
least  Elsie  didnt  deceive  me ! "  She  pau.sed  for  a  moment  and 
wiped  her  eyes;  then  she  steadied  herself  by  the  bar  of  the 
window — the  air  blew  in  so  warm  and  fresh.  She  looked  out  at 
the  palms  and  the  blue,  blue  sea.  It  seemed  to  calm  her,  the 
beautiful  touth.    She  gazed  long  and  wearily  at  the  glassy 


GHOST  OR    WOMANf 


2C9 


water.  But  her  dronm  didn't  last  nri(llstnr1iccl  for  many 
minutes.  Of  a  siuldcn,  a  shiulo  cnnio  over  lier  l';ic(!.  Sonictliiiig 
bb'low  seemed  to  stint?  and  ap^ial  her.  Slie  started  'vick,  totter- 
ing, from  the  0]Km  window.  "  Hngh,  Hugh !  "  Kiie  cj'ied,  ghastly 
pale  and  quivering,  '* yini  said  she  was  dead! — yon  said  she  was 
dcrd !    You  He  to  me  still.    Oh,  Heaven,  ^'ow  terrible  I  " 

"So  she  is,*'  Hngh  groaned  out,  half  cf..'  liag  her  in  his  arms 
for  f  ar  she  should  fall.  *'  Dead  and  buried,  on  my  honour,  at 
Orfu'dness,  Winifred  I " 

"Hugh,  Hugh!  can  you  never  tell  me  the  truth?"  And  she 
stretched  out  one  thin  white  bony  forefinger  towards  the  stret;t 
beyond.  One  second  she  gasped  a  terrible  gasp ;  then  she  flung 
out  the  words  with  a  la.^t  wild  effort ;  "That's  she!— that's 
Elsie  1" 


1    Sho 
iid  and 

! — snu 

(shall  go 
lid  lor  a 
Uter  so. 
thirst 
J  glad  at 
lent  and 
of  tho 
out  at 
ler,  tho 
glassy 


CHAPTEE  XXXVIII, 

GHOST   OR  WOMAN? 

WiNrp^FD  spolre  with  such  concentrated  force  of  inner  co:iTic- 
tion  that,  absurd  and  iueredible  as  he  knew  it  to  be — for  had  he 
not  seen  Elsie's  own  grave  that  day  at  Orfordncss?— Hugh 
rushed  over  to  the  window  in  a  fever  of  sudden  suspense  ai'd 
anxiety,  and  gazed  across  tlie  street  to  the  exact  spot  where 
Winifred's  ghost-like  finger  pointed  eagerly  to  some  person  or 
thing  on  the  pavement  opposite.  He  was  almost  too  late,  how- 
ever, to  prove  her  wrong.  As  he  ncared  the  window,  lie  caught 
but  a  glimpse  of  a  graceful  figure  in  light  half-mourning — like 
Elsie's,  to  be  sure,  in  general  outline,  though  distinctly  a  trifle 
older  and  fuller — disappearing  in  haste  round  the  corner  by  the 
pharmacy. 

The  figure  gave  him  none  the  less  a  shock  of  surprise.  It 
was  certainly  a  very  strange  and  awkward  coincidence.  He 
hadn't  been  in  time  to  catch  tho  face,  indeed,  as  Winifred  had 
done;  but  the  figure  alone,  the  figure  recalled  every  trait  of 
Elsie's.  How  singular,  after  Winifred  had  come  to  San  Eemo 
vith  this  profound  belief  in  Elsie's  living  there,  that  on  the 
very  first  day  of  their  stay  in  the  town  they  should  happen  to 
light  by  pure  aocid<-nt  upon  a  person  so  closely  recalling  Elsie! 
Snrely,  surely  the  stars  in  their  courses  wore  fighting  against 
hiiU.  Wavren  Eelf  could  not  be  blamed  for  this,  It  was 
destiny,  sheer  adverse  destiny.  Accidental  resemblancts  and 
horrid  coincidences  were  falling  together  blindly  with  un- 
conscious cunning,  on  purpose,  as  it  were,  to  spite  and  disconcert 
him.  The  laws  of  chance  were  setting  themselves  by  the  ears 
fur  his  special  discomliLure.  No  ordinary  calculation  could 
18 


I 


270 


THIS  MORTAL   COIL, 


■;'   i: 


flccoTint  for  this.  It  had  in  it  somethi'^g  almost  «Tiper  hiral. 
He  glanced  at  Winifred.  She  stood  triumphant  ure— 
triumphant  but  heart-broken — exulting  over  his  dcfpat  with 
one  dying  **  I  told  yon  po,"  and  chuckling  out  inarticulately  in 
bor  thin  small  voice,  ^vith  womanish  persistence :  "  That's  she!— 
that's  Elsie!" 

*'  It's  very  like  her  I "  he  moaned  in  his  agony. 

"  Very  like  her ! "  Winifred  cried  with  a  fresh  burst  of  uu- 
ratural  strength.  "Very  like  her! — Oh,  Hugh,  I  despise  you! 
I  tell  you  I  saw  her  face  to  face  1    It's  Elsie— it's  Elsie ! " 

A  picture  sometimes  darts  across  one's  eye  for  a  brief  moment, 
and  remains  vaguely  photographed  for  a  space  on  the  retina, 
but  uninterpreted  by  the  brain,  till  it  grows,  as  we  dwell  upon 
it  mentally  afterwards,  ever  clearer  and  clearer,  and  at  last  with 
a  burst  flashes  its  real  significance  fully  home  to  us  in  a  flood  of 
conviction.  As  Hugh  stood  there,  absorbed,  by  the  half- open 
window,  the  picture  he  had  caught  of  that  slight  lithe  figiu'e 
sweeping  round  the  corner  with  Elsie's  well-known  gait  came 
home  to  him  thus  with  a  sudden  rush  of  indubitable  certainty. 
He  no  longer  hesitated.  He  saw  it  was  so.  lie  knew  her  now ! 
It  was  Elsie,  Elsie ! 

His  brain  reeled  and  whirled  with  the  unexpected  shock;  the 
universe  turned  round  on  him  as  on  a  pivot.  "  Winifred,'*  he 
cried,  *' you're  right!  you're  right!  There  can't  be  anybody 
else  on  earth  so  like  her !  I  don't  know  how  she's  come  back  to 
life!  She's  dead  and  buried  at  Orfordness!  It's  a  miracle !  a 
miracle!  But  that's  she  that  we  saw!  I  can't  deny  it.  That's 
she!— that's  Elsie!" 

His  hat  lay  thrown  down  on  the  table  by  his  side.  He 
snatched  it  up  in  his  eager  haste  to  follow  and  track  down  this 
mysterious  resemblance,  lie  couldn't  let  Elsie's  double,  her 
bodily  simulacrum,  walk  down  the  street  unnoticed  and  un- 
questioned. A  profound  horror  possessed  his  soul.  A  doubter 
by  nature,  he  seemed  to  feel  the  solid  earth  failing  beneath  his 
feet.  He  had  never  before  in  all  his  life  drawn  so  perilously 
close  to  the  very  verge  and  margin  of  the  unseen  universe.  It 
was  Elsie  herself,  or  else— the  grave  had  yielded  up  its  shadowy 
occupant. 

He  rushed  to  the  door,  on  fire  with  his  sense  of  mystery  and 
astonishment.  A  loud  laugh  by  his  side  held  him  back  as  he 
went.  He  turned  round.  It  was  Winifred,  laughing,  choking, 
exultant,  hysterical.  She  had  flung  herself  down  on  the  sofa 
now,  and  was  catching  her  breath  in  spasmodic  bursts  with 
unnatural  merriment.  That  was  the  awful  kind  of  laughter 
that  bodes  no  good  to  those  who  laugh  it — hollow,  horrible, 
mocking,  delusive.  Huph  saw  at  a  glance  she  was  dangerously 
ill.    Her  mirth  A-as  the  m:rth  of  mania,  and  worse.    With  a 


1 


aHOST  OB    WOMANf 


271 


as  he 

Iio  sofa 
with 
[ughter 
arrible, 
trously 
IVith  a 


burning  soul  and  a  chafin?  heart,  he  turned  hack,  as  in  duty 
hound,  to  her  side  again.  Ho  must  leaTe  Elsie's  wraith  to  walk 
by  itself,  unexplained  and  uninvestigated,  its  ghostly  way  down 
the  streets  of  8an  Eemo.  Ho  had  more  than  enough  to  do  at 
Lome.    Winifred  was  dying ! — dying  of  laughter. 

And  yet  licr  laugh  seemed  almost  hilarious.  In  spife  of  all, 
it  had  a  ghastly  ring  of  victory  and  boisterous  joy  in  it.  "  Oh, 
Hugh,"  she  cried,  with  little  choking  chuckles,  in  the  brief 
intervals  of  her  spa^jmodic  peals,  "you're  too  absurd!  You'll 
kill  mol  you'll  kill  mo  I — I  can't  help  laughing;  it's  so  ridiculous. 
— You  tell  me  one  minute,  with  solemn  oaths  p;id  ingenious  lies, 
you've  seen  her  grave — you  know  she's  dead  and  buried :  yon 
pull  long  faces  till  you  almost  force  me  to  believe  you— you 
poisitively  cry  and  moan  and  groan  over  her — and  then  the  next 
second,  when  she  passes  the  window  before  my  very  eyes,  alive 
jind  well,  and  in  her  right  mhiC,  you  seize  your  hat,  you  want 
to  rush  out  and  find  her  and  embrace  her — here,  this  moment, 
right  under  my  face — and  leave  me  alone  to  die  by  myf-elf, 
without  one  soul  on  earth  to  wait  upon  me  or  he^j)  me!  "  Her 
emotion  supplied  her  with  words  and  images  above  her  own 
level. — "  It's  just  grotesque,"  ahe  went  on  after  a  pause.  "  It's 
inhuman  in  its  absurdity.  Wicked  as  you  arc.  and  shameless 
as  you  are,  it's  imjiossible  for  any  one  to  take  you  seriously, — 
You're  the  living  embodiment  of  a  little,  inconsequent,  meddling, 
muddling,  mischief-making  medieval  demon.  You're  a  burlesque 
Mephistophiles.  You've  got  no  soul,  and  you've  got  no  feelings. 
But  you  make  me  laugh '.  Oh,  you  make  me  laugh !  You've 
broken  my  heart ;  but  you'll  be  the  death  of  me. — Puck  and 
Don  Juan  rolled  into  one! — •Elsie's  dead! — Why,  there's  dear 
Elsie!' — It's  too  incongruous;  it's  too  ridiculous."  And  she 
exploded  once  more  in  a  hideous  semblance  of  laughter. 

Hugh  gazed  at  her  blankly,  sobered  with  alarm.  Was  she 
going  mad  ?  or  was  he  mad  himself? — that  he  should  see  visions, 
and  meet  dead  Elsie!  Covld  it  really  be  Elsie?  He  had  heard 
strange  stories  of  appearances  and  second-sight,  such  as  mystics 
among  us  love  to  dwell  upon ;  and  in  all  of  them  the  appearances 
were  closely  connected  with  death-bed  scenes.  Could  any  truth 
lurk,  after  all,  in  those  discredited  tales  of  wraiths  and  visions  ? 
Could  Elsie's  ghost  have  come  from  the  grave  to  prepare  him 
betimes  for  Winifred's  funeral  ?  Or  did  Winifred's  dying  mind, 
by  some  j^trange  alchemy,  project,  as  it  were,  an  image  of  Elsie, 
who  filled  her  soul,  on  to  his  own  eye  and  brain,  as  he  sat  there 
beside  her  ? 

He  brushed  away  these  metnphysical  cobwebs  with  a  dash  of 
his  hmid.  Fool  that  he  was  to  l)e  led  away  thus  by  a  mere  acci- 
dental coincidence  or  resemblance!  He  was  tired  with  sleeplesa- 
uess ;  emotion  had  unmanned  him. 


I 


liii 


%n 


THIS  MORTAL   COIL. 


"Winifrcl's  langh  dispolvcl  itself  into  tonrs.  She  brolce  down 
now,  liystei'ically,  utterly.  Slie  sobbed  and  moaned  in  agony  ou 
the  sofa.  Deep  sighs  and  loud  laughter  alternated  lioi-ribly  in 
her  storra  of  emotion.  Tlie  worst  liad  come.  She  was  danger- 
ously ill.  Hugh  feared  in  his  heart  she  was  on  tho  point  of 
dying. 

"Go!"  she  burst  out,  in  one  spasmodic  effort,  thrusting  him 
away  from  her  sifle  with  tho  palm  of  her  open  hand.  "  I  don't 
want  you  hero.  Go — go — to  Elsie  I  I  can  die  now.  I've  found 
you  all  out.  You're  Loth  of  you  alike;  you've  both  of  you 
deceived  me." 

Hugh  rang  the  bell  vriUny  for  the  Swiss  waiter.  "Send  the 
chambermaid!"  he  cried  in  his  broken  Italian.  "Tho 
patroness !  A  lady !  The  signora  is  ill.  No  time  to  bo  lo^t. 
I  must  run  at  once  and  find  the  English  doctor." 

When  Winifred  looked  around  her  again,  she  found  two  or 
three  strange  faces  crowded  beside  the  bed  on  which  they  had 
laid  her,  and  a  fresh  young  Italian  girl,  the  landlady's  daugh- 
ter, holding  hor  head  and  bathing  her  brows  with  that  universal 
Bjiccilic,  oiange-flower  water.  The  faint  perfume  revived  her 
a  little.  TIjg  landlady's  daughter  was  a  comely  girl,,  with  sym- 
pathetic eyes,  and  she  smiled  the  winsome  Italian  smile  as  the 
poor  pale  child  opened  her  lids  and  looked  vaguely  up  at  her. 
*' Don't  cry,  signorina,"  she  said  soothingly.  Then  her  glanco 
fell,  woman-like,  upon  the  plain  gold  ring  on  Winifred's  thin 
and  wasted  fourth  tinger,  and  she  corrected  herself  half  uncon- 
sciously :  "  Don't  cry,  signora.  Your  husband  will  soon  bo  back 
by  your  side  :  he's  gone  to  fetch  the  English  doctor." 

"I  don't  want  him,"  Winifred  cried,  with  intense  yearning, 
in  her  boarding-school  French,  for  she  kue\'  barely  enough 
Italian  to  understand  her  now  little  friend.  "I  don't  want  my 
husband ;  I  want  Elsie.  Keep  him  away  from  me — keep  him 
away,  I  pray. — Hold  my  hand  yourself,  and  send  away  my  hus- 
band! Je  ne  I'aime  pas,  cet  hommcla!"  And  she  burst  onco 
more  into  a  discordant  peal  of  hysterical  laughter. 

"The  poor  signora!"  the  girl  murmured,  with  wide  open 
eyes,  to  the  others  around.  "Her  husband  is  cruel.  Ah, 
Avickcd  w'retch!  Hear  what  she  savs!  She  says  she  doesn't 
w iint  any  more  to  see  him.    She  wants  her  sister ! " 

As  she  spoke,  a  white  face  appeared  suddenly  at  the  door — 
a  bearded  man's  face,  silent  and  sympathetic.  Warren  Eelf 
had  heard  the  commotion  downstairs,  from  his  room  above,  and 
had  seen  Massingc.T  run  in  hot  haste  for  the  doctor.  He  had 
come  down  now  with  eager  inqniry  for  poor  wasted  Winifred, 
whose  face  and  figure  had  inipivssc.i  him  much  as  he  saw  her 
borne  out  by  the  porters  at  the  railway  station. 

"  Is  the  siijnora  very  ill  'i "  ho  a.sked  in  a  low  voice  of  the 


GnOST  on   WOMAN f 


273 


opon 
Ah, 


door— 

I  I^elf 

?,  and 

e  lia'l 

iiifrud, 

aw  her 

of  the 


nearest  womjin.     "She  speaks  no  Italian,  I  fear.    Can  I  bo  of 
any  u.se  to  her?" 

"Eoco!  'tis  Signor  Eolf,  tlio  En};1ish  artist!"  tic  woman 
cried,  in  snrprise;  for  all  Si'<i  lleino  know  Warren  woll  as  an 
old  iiihabitaiit. — "Come  in,  f  igiior,"  hIio  continued,  with  Itnlian 
frankness — for  bedrooms  in  Italy  are  less  sacred  than  in  J*]ng- 
land.  '♦  Yon  know  the  signora  ?  iShe  is  ill — very  ill  :  she  ia 
faint — she  is  dyinp;." 

At  the  name,  W  inifred  turned  her  eyes  lanpuidly  to  the  dof)r, 
and  raised  h(!rself,  still  dressed  in  her  travelling  dress,  on  her 
elbows  on  the  bed.  She  yearned  for  symi)athy.  If  only  she 
could  fling  herself  on  Elsie's  shoulder!  Elsie,  who  hud  wronged 
her,  would  at  hast  pity  her.  "  Mr.  Eelf,"  she  cried,  too  weak  to 
be  surprised,  but  glad  to  welcome  a  fellow-countryman  and 
acquaintance  among  so  many  stranp;ers— and  with  Hugh  him- 
self worse  than  a  stranger — "  I'm  going  to  die.  But  I  want  to 
speak  to  you.  You  know  the  truth.  Tell  me  about  Elsie. 
Vhy  did  I'^lsie  Challoner  deceive  me?" 

"  Deceive  you ! "  Warren  answered,  drawing  nearer  in  his 
horror.  *'  She  didn't  deceive  you.  She  conldn't  deceive  you. 
She  only  wished  to  spare  your  lienrt  from  suffering  all  her  own 
heart  had  f-uficred.    Elsie  could  never  deceive  any  one." 

"  But  why  did  she  write  to  say  she  was  in  Australia,  when 
she  was  really  living  here  in  San  Eemo?"  Winifred  asked 
piteously.  "  And  why  did  she  keep  up  a  correspondence  with 
my  husband  ?  " 

"Write  she  was  in  Australia!  She  never  wrote,"  Warren 
cried  in  haste,  seizing  the  poor  dying  girl's  thin  hand  in  his. 
— "  Mrs.  Massinger,  this  is  no  time  to  conceal  anything.  I  dare 
not  speak  to  you  against  your  husband,  but  still " 

"  I  hate  him  1 "  Winifred  gasped  out,  with  concentrated 
loathing,  ''lie  has  done  nothing  since  I  knew  him  but  lie 
to  me  and  deceive  me.  Don't  mind  speaking  ill  of  him ;  I  don't 
object  to  that.  What  kills  me  is  that  Elsie  has  helped  him! 
Elsie  has  helped  him ! " 

"  Elsie  has  not,"  Warren  nnswered,  lifting  up  her  white  little 
hand  to  his  lips  and  kissing  it  respectfully.  "  Elsie  and  I  are 
very  close  friends.  Elsie  Las  always  loved  you  dearly.  If  she's 
hidden  anything  from  you,  she  hid  it  for  your  own  sake  nlone. 
— It  was  Hugh  Massinger  who  forged  those  letters. — I  can't  let 
you  die  thinking  ill  of  Elsie.  Elsie  has  never,  never  written  to 
him. — I  know  it  all. — I'll  tell  you  the  truth.  Your  husband 
thought  she  was  drowned  at  Whitestrand  !  " 

"Then  Hugh  dt)esn't  know  she's  living  here?"  Winifred  cried 
eagerly. 

Warren  Rolf  hardly  knew  how  to  answer  her  in  this  unex- 
pected crisis.    It  was  a  terrible  moment,    lie  couldn't  expose 


274 


TBIS  MORTAL  COIL. 


f-      :■, 


Elsie  to  tlie  cliance  of  moetiiiK  Hnph  fnco  to  fiico.  Tho  sliook 
and  strain,  ho  knew,  would  bo  hard  lor  her  to  bear.  But,  on  tho 
other  hand,  lio  couldn't  let  that  poor  bruken-beartcd  little 
woman  die  with  this  fearful  load  of  misery  unlightcned  on  her 
bopora.  The  truth  was  best.  The  truth  is  always  safest. 
*'  Hugh  doesn't  know  she's  living  here,"  he  nnswoiei  slowly. 
"But  if  I  could  only  be  sure  that  Hugh  and  she  would  not 
meet,  I'd  bring  her  round,  before  she  leaves  San  Tlomo,  this  very 
day,  and  let  you  hear  from  her  own  lips,  beyoud  dispute,  her 
true  story." 

Winifred  clenched  her  thin  hands  hard  and  tigl'.  t.  '*  He  shall 
never  enter  this  room  again,"  she  whispered  hoarfcely,  "  till  he 
enters  it  to  see  me  laid  out  for  burial." 

Warren  Relf  drew  back,  horrified  at  her  unnatural  sternness. 
"Oh  no,"  he  crie  I.  " Mrs.  Massinger — you  don't  mean  that: 
remember,  he's  your  husband." 

"  He  n«ver  was  my  husband,"  Winifred  answered  with  a  fresh 
burst  of  her  feverish  energy.  "Ho  was  Elsie's  husband — 
Elsie's  at  heart.  He  loved  Elsie.  Ho  never  married  me  myself 
at  all;  ho  married  only  the  manor  of  Whitcstrand. — Ho  shall 
never  come  near  me  ai^ain  while  I  live. — I  shall  hold  him  off. 
I'm  a  weak  woman  ;  but  I've  strength  enougli  and  will  enough 
left  for  that. — 1  shall  keep  him  at  arui's-lengtli  as  long  as  I  live. 
— Don't  be  afraid.  Bring  Elsie  here;  I  want  to  see  her.  I 
shovild  die  happy  if  only  I  knew  that  Elsie  hadn't  helped  that 
man  to  deceive  me." 

Meanwhile,  Hugh  Mnssinger  was  hurrying  along  on  his  way 
to  the  English  doctor's,  saying  to  himself  a  thousand  times 
over:  "  I  don't  care  how  much  she  thinks  ill  of  me  j  but  I  cant 
endure  she  should  die  thinking  ill  of  poor  dead  Elsie.  If  only 
I  could  make  her  believe  me  in  that.  If  only  she  knew  that 
Elsie  was  true  to  her,  that  poor  dead  Elsie  had  never  deceived 
her!"  He  had  so  much  of  chivalry,  so  much  of  earnestness,  so 
much  of  devotion,  still  left  in  him.  But  he  thought  most  of 
poor  dead  Elsie,  not  at  all  of  poor  deceived  and  dying  Winifred. 
For  he  no  longer  believed  it  was  really  Elsie  he  had  seen  in  tho 
street :  the  delusion  had  come  and  gone  in  a  tlrish.  How  could 
it  be  Elsie?  Such  sights  are  impossible.  He  was  no  dreamer 
of  dreams  or  seer  of  visions.  Elsie  was  dead  and  buried  at 
Orfordness,  and  this  other  figure — was  only,  after  all,  very,  very 
like  hex. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 


i       I 


AFTER   LONG   GUIEF   AND  PAIN. 

TiiK  timo  to  stand  upon  trifles  was  past.  Lot  him  run  the  risk 
of  meeting  Massinger  by  the  way  or  not,  W  arren  Keif  must 
needs  go  round  and  fetch  Elsie  to  comfort  and  console  poor 
dying  Winifred.  He  hastened  away  at  the  top  of  his  speed  to 
tlie  Villa  Kossa.  At  the  door,  both  girls  together  mot  him.  Elsie 
liad  just  returned,  basket  in  hand,  from  the  Avenue  Vittorio- 
Eramanuele,  and  had  learnt  from  Edio  so  much  of  tho  contents 
of  Warren's  hasty  letter  as  had  been  intended,  from  the  tirst  for 
licr  edification. 

Warren  hadn't  meant  to  let  Elsie  know  that  Hugh  and  Wini- 
fred had  come  to  San  Eemo ;  or,  at  any  rate,  not  immediately. 
He  wished  rather  to  break  it  by  gradual  stages,  and  to  prepare 
her  mind  as  v^uietly  as  possible  for  a  hasty  return  home  to  Eng- 
land. But  the  eight  of  poor  Winifred's  dying  misery  and 
distress  had  put  all  that  on  a  different  footing.  Even  though 
it  cost  Elsie  a  bitter  wrench,  he  must  take  her  round  at  all  costs 
to  see  Winifred.  He  kissed  his  sister,  a  mechanical  kiss ;  then 
he  turned  round,  and,  half  by  accident,  half  by  design,  for  the 
first  time  in  his  life  lie  kissed  Elsie  too,  like  one  who  hardly 
knows  he  does  it.  Elsie  drew  back,  a  trifle  surprised,  but  did  not 
resent  the  unexpected  freedom.  After  all,  one  may  always  kiss 
one's  brother ;  and  she  and  Warren  were  brother  and  sister. — 
Did  it  run  in  the  family,  peradventure,  that  false  logic  of 
love?  Was  Elsie  now  deceiving  her^elf  with  tho  self-same 
plea  as  that  with  which  Hugh  had  once  in  his  turn  deceived 
hur? 

Warren  drew  her  aside  gently  into  the  tiny  salon,  and 
motioned  to  Edie  not  to  follow  them.  Elsie's  heart  beat  high 
with  wonder.  She  was  aware  how  much  it  made  her  pulse 
quicken  to  see  Warren  again — with  something  more  than  the 
mere  fraternal  greeting  she  pretended.  Her  little  self-decep- 
tion broke  down  at  last :  she  knew  she  loved  him — in  an  un- 
practical way ;  and  she  was  almost  sorry  she  could  never,  never 
make  him  happy. 

iiut  Warren's  grave  face  bade  her  heart  stand  still  for  a  beat 
or  two  next  moment.  He  had  clearly  something  most  serious  to 
communicate — something  that  he  knew  would  profoundly  dis- 
tress her.      A  womanly  alarm  came  over  her  with  a  vague 

surmise.     Could  Warren  be  going  to  tell  her ?     Oh  no  I 

Impossible.    She  knew  dear  Warren  too  well  for  that!  he  at 
least  could  never  be  cruel. 


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THIS  MOIITAL   COIL. 


If  Warren  was  going  to  tell  her  that,  her  faith  in  her  kind 
would  die  out  for  ever.  And  then,  she  almost  smiled  to  herself 
at  her  own  frank  and  ieminine  inconsistency.  She,  who  could 
never  love  again !— slio,  who  had  always  scrupulously  told  him 
she  cared  for  him  only  as  a  sister  for  a  brother! — she,  who 
wanted  him  to  marry  "some  nice  giil,  who  would  make  him 
happy."  She  recognized  now  that  if  that  "nice  girl"  had  in 
reality  floated  across  Warren  Eelfs  spiritual  horizon,  her  life 
would  again  be  left  unto  her  desolate.  It  flashed  across  her 
mind  with  vivid  distinctness,  in  that  moment  of  painful  doubt 
and  uncertainty,  that  after  all  she  really  loved  him! — beyond 
shadow  of  question,  she  really  loved  him  I 

**  Well,  Warren  ?  **  she  asked  with  tremulous  eagerness,  draw- 
ing closer  up  to  him  in  her  sweet  womanly  confidence,  and 
gazing  into  his  eyes,  half  afraid,  half  affectionate.  How  could 
she  ever  have  doubted  him,  were  it  only  for  a  second  ? 

"  Elsie,"  Warren  cried,  laying  his  hand  with  unspoken  tender- 
ness on  her  shapely  shoulder,  "  I  want  you  to  come  round  at 
once  to  the  pension  on  the  piazza. — It's  better  to  tell  it  all  out 
at  once.  Winifred  Massinger's  come  to  San  Kemf»,  very  ill — 
dying,  I  fear.  She  knows  you're  here,  and  she's  asked  to  see 
you." 

Elsie's  face  grew  red  and  then  white  for  a  moment,  and  she 
trembled  visibly.  "  Is  he  there  ?  "  she  asked,  after  a  short  pause. 
Then,  with  a  sudden  burst  of  uncontrollable  tears,  she  buried 
her  face  in  her  hands  on  the  table.  • 

Warren  soothed  her  with  his  hand  tenderly,  and,  leaning  over 
her,  told  her,  in  baste  and  in  a  very  low  voice,  the  whole  sad 
story.  "I  don't  think  he'll  be  thei-e,*'  he  added  at  the  end. 
*'  Mrs.  Massinger  said  she  wouldn't  allow  him  to  enter  the  room. 
But  in  any  case — for  that  poor  girl's  sake— you  won't  refuse  to 
go  to  her  now,  will  you,  Elsie  V  " 

"  No,"  Elsie  answered,  rising  calmly  with  womanly  dignity, 
to  face  it  all  out.  "}  :t:'M  go.  It  would  be  cruel  and  wicked 
of  course  to  shirk  it.  For  Winifred's  sake,  I'll  go  in  any  case. 
— But,  Warren,  betore  I  dare  to  go "  She  broke  off  sud- 
denly, and  with  a  woman's  impulse  held  up  her  pale  face  to  him 
in  mute  submission. 

A  thrill  coursed  through  Warren  Relf  s  nerves ;  he  stooped 
down  and  pressed  his  lips  fervently  to  hers.  "  Byfoie  you  go, 
you  are  mine  then,  Elsie !  "  he  cried  eagerly. 

Elsie  pressed  his  hand  faintly  in  reply.  "  I  am  yours, 
Warren,"  she  answered  at  last  very  low,  after  a  short  pause. 
"But  I  can't  be  yours  as  you  wish  it  for  a  long  time  yet. 
No  matter  why.  I  shall  be  yours  in  heart. — I  couldn't  have 
gone  on  any  other  terms.  And  with  that,  I  think,  I  can  go 
and  face  it." 


AFTER  LONG   ORIEF  AND  PAIN 


•?77 


'    I 


At  the  pension,  Hugh  liad  already  brought  the  English 
doctor,  who  went  in  alone  to  look  after  Winifred.  Hugh  had 
tried  to  accompany  him  into  the  Ixdroom!  but  Winifred,  true  to 
her  terrible  threat,lifted  one  stern  forefinger  before  his  swimming 
eyes  and  cried  out  "  Never ! "  in  a  voice  so  doggedly  determined 
that  Hugh  Blank  away  abashed  into  the  anteroom. 
^  The  English  doctor  stopped  for  several  minutes  in  consulta- 
tion, and  Winifred  spoke  to  him,  simply  and  unreservedly  ci.out 
her  husband.  "  Send  that  man  away ! "  she  cried,  pointing  to 
Hugh,  as  he  stood  still  peering  across  from  the  gloom  of  the  door- 
way, ^  "  I  won't  have  him  in  here  to  see  me  die !  I  won't  have 
hira  in  here !  It  makes  me  worse  to  see  him  about  the  place. 
I  hate  him !— I  hate  him !  " 

"  You'd  better  go,"  the  doctor  whispered  softly,  looking  him 
hard  in  the  face  with  his  inquiring  eyes.  "  She's  in  a  very  ex- 
cited, hysterical  condition.  She's  best  alone,  with  only  the  women. 
— A  husband's  presence  often  does  more  harm  than  good  in  such 
nervous  crises.  Nobody  should  be  near  to  increase  her  excite- 
ment.— Have  the  kindness  to  shut  the  door,  if  you  please.  You 
needn't  come  back  for  the  present,  thank  you." 

And  then  Winifred  unburdened  once  more  her  poor  laden 
soul  in  convulsive  sobs.  *'  I  want  to  see  Elsie !  I  want  to  see 
Elsie!" 

*'Miss  ChalloTier?"  the  doctor  asked  suggestively.  Ho  knew 
her  well  as  the  tenderest  and  best  of  amateur  nurses. 

Winift'ed  explained  to  him  with  broken  little  cries  and  eager 
words  that  she  wished  to  see  Elsie  in  Hugh's  absence. 

At  the  end  of  five  minutes'  soothing  talk,  the  doctor  read  it 
all  to  the  very  bottom  with  professional  acuteness.  The  pooi: 
girl  was  dying.  Hor  husband  and  she  had  never  got  6n.  She 
hungered  and  thirsted  for  human  sympathy.  Why  not  gratify 
her  yearning  little  soul  ?  He  stepped  back  into  the  bare  and 
dingily  lighted  sitting-room.  "  I  think,"  he  said  persuasively 
to  Hugh,  with  authoritative  suggestion,  "your  wife  would  be 
all  the  better  in  the  end  if  she  were  left  entirely  alone  with  the 
womenkind  for  a  little.  Your  presence  here  evidently  disturbs 
and  excites  her.  Her  condition's  critical,  distinctly  critical.  I 
won't  conceal  it  from  you.  She's  over-fatigued  with  the  journey 
and  with  mental  exhaustion.  The  slightest  aggravation  of  the 
hysterical  symptoms  might  carry  her  off  at  any  moment.  If  I 
were  you,  I'd  stroll  out  for  an  hour.  Lounge  along  by  the  shore 
or  up  the  hills  a  bit.  I'll  stop  and  look  after  her.  She's  quieter 
now.    You  needn't  come  back  for  at  least  an  hour." 

Hugh  knew  in  his  heart  it  was  best  so.  Winifred  hated  him, 
not  without  cause.  Ho  took  up  his  hat,  crushed  it  fiercely  on 
his  head,  and,  strolling  down  by  himself  to  the  water's  edge,  sat 
in  the  listless  calm  of  utter  despair  on  a  bare  bench  in  the  cool 


I' 


% 


Uh 


it. 


278 


THIS  MORTAL  COIL. 


fresh  air  of  an  Italian  evening.  He  thought  in  a  hopeless, 
helpless,  irresponsible  way  about  poor  dead  Elsie  and  poor 
dying  Winifred. 

Five  minutes  after  Hugh  had  left  the  pension,  "Warren  Relf 
and  Elsie  mounted  the  big  centre  staircase  and  knocked  at  the 
door  of  Winifred's  bare  and  dingy  salon.  The  patron  had 
already  informed  them  that  tlie  signor  was  gone  out,  and  that 
the  signora  was  up  in  her  room  alone  with  the  women  of  the 
hotel  and  the  English  doctor. 

Warren  Relf  remained  by  himself  in  the  ante-room.  Elsie 
went  in  unannounced  to  Winifred. 

Oh,  the  joy  and  relief  of  that  final  meeting !  The  poor  dying 
girl  rose  up  on  the  bed  with  a  bound  to  greet  her.  A  sudden 
flush  crimsoned  her  sunken  cheeks.  As  her  eyes  rested  once 
more  upon  Elsie's,  face — that  earnest,  serious,  beautiful  face  she 
had  loved  and  trusted— every  shadow  of  fear  and  misery  faded 
from  her  look,  and  she  cried  aloud  in  a  fever  of  delight :  "  Oh, 
Elsie,  Elsie,  I'm  glad  you've  come.  I'm  giad  to  hold  your  hand 
in  mine  again;  now  I  can  die  happy!" 

Elsie  saw  at  a  glance  that  she  spoke  the  truth.  That  bright 
red  spot  in  the  centre  of  each  wan  and  pallid  cheek  told  its  own 
f-ad  tale  with  unmistakable  eloquence.  She  flung  her  arms 
fervently  round  her  feeble  little  friend.  "Winnie,  Winnie!" 
she  cried — "my  own  sweet  Winnie!  Why  didn't  you  let  me 
know  before?  If  I'd  thought  you  were  like  this,  I'd  have  come 
to  you  long  ago ! " 

"  Then  you  love  me  still  ? "  Winifred  murmured  low,  cling- 
ing tight  and  hard  to  her  recovered  friend  with  a  feverish 
longing. 

"I've  always  loved  you;  I  shall  always  love  you,"  Elsie 
answered  slowly.  "My  love  doesn't  come  and  go,  Winnie. 
If  I  hadn't  loved  you  more  than  I  can  say,  I'd  have  come  long 
since.  It  was  for  your  own  sake  I  kept  so  long  away  from 
yon." 

The  English  doctor  rose  with  a  sign  from  the  chair  by  the 
bedside  and  motioned  the  women  out  of  the  room. — "  We'll 
leave  you  alone,"  he  said  in  a  quiet  voice  to  Elsie. — *'  Don't 
excite  her  too  much,  if  you  please,  Miss  ChiiUoner.  But  I  know 
I  can  trust  you.  I  leave  her  in  the  very  best  of  hands.  You 
can  only  be  soothing  and  restful  anywhere." 

The  doctor's  contidence  was  perhaps  ill-advised.  As  soon  as 
those  two  were  left  by  themselves — the  two  women  who  had 
loved  Hugh  Massinger  best  in  the  world,  and  whom  Hugh 
Massinger  had  so  deeply  wronged  and  so  cruelly  injured,  they 
fell  upon  one  another's  necks  with  a  great  cry,  and  wept, 
and  caressed  one  another  long  in   silence.    Then  Winifred, 


AFTER  LONG  QRIEF  AND  PAIN. 


279 


•\ 


leaning  back  in  fatigue,  Raid  with  a  sudden  burst :  "  Oh,  Elsie, 
Elsie!  I  can't  die  now  without  confessing  it,  all,  every  word  to 
you :  once,  do  you  know — more  than  once  I  distrusted  you ! " 

**  I  know,  my  darling,"  Elsie  answered  with  a  tearful  smile, 
kissing  her  pale  white  fingers  many  times  tenderly.  "  I  know, 
I  understand.  You  couldn't  help  it.  You  needn't  explain.  It 
was  no  wonder." 

Winifred  gazed  at  her  transparent  eyes  and  truthful  face.  No 
one  who  saw  tlieni  could  ever  distrust  them,  at  least  while  he 
looked  at  them.  "  Elsie,"  she  said,  gripping  her  tight  in  her 
grasp — the  one  being  on  earth  who  could  truly  sympathize  with 
her — "  I'll  tell  you  why :  he  kept  your  letters  all  in  a  box — 
your  letters  and  the  little  gold  watch  he  gave  you." 

"  No,  not  the  watch,  darling,"  Elsie  answered,  starting  back. 
— "Winnie,  I'll  tell  you  what  I  did  with  that  watch  :  I  threw 
it  into  the  sea  off  the  pier  at  Lowestoft." 

A  light  broke  suddenly  over  Winifred's  mind ;  she  knew  now 
Hugh  had  told  her  the  truth  for  once.  "  Ho  picked  it  up  at 
Orfordness,"  she  mused  simply.  "  It  was  carried  there  by  the 
tide  with  a  woman's  body— a  body  that  be  took  for  yours, 
Elsie." 

"  Ho  docpn't  know  I'm  alive  even  now,  dearest,"  Elsie  whis- 
pered by  her  side.  *'  1  hope  while  I  live  he  may  never  know 
it;  though  1  don't  know  now  how  were  to  keep  it  from  him,  I 
confess,  much  longer." 

Then  Winifred,  emboldened  by  Elsie's  hand,  poured  out  her 
fall  grief  in  her  friend's  ear,  and  told  Elsie  the  tale  of  her  long, 
long  sorrow.  Elsie  listened  with  a  burning  cheek.  "  If  only  I'd 
known  ! "  she  cried  at  last.  "  If  only  I'd  known  all  this  ever  so 
much  sooner !  But  I  didn't  want  to  come  between  you  two.  I 
thought  perhaps  I  would  spoil  all :  I  fancied  you  were  happy 
with  one  auotlier." 

"  And  after  I'm  dead,  Elsie,  will  you — see  him  ?" 

Elsie  started.    "  Never,  darling,"  she  cried.    "  Never,  never ! " 

"  Then  you  don't  love  him  any  longer,  dear?" 

"  Love  him  ?  Oh  no  1  That's  all  dead  and  buried  long  ago. 
I  mourned  too  many  months  for  my  dead  love,  Winifred;  but 
after  the  way  Hugh's  treated  you — how  could  1  love  himV  how 
could  1  help  feeling  harshly  towards  him?  " 

Winifred  pressed  her  friend  in  her  arms  harder  than  ever. 
"Oh,  Elsie!"  she  cried,  "I  love  you  better  than  anybody  else  in 
the  whole  world.  I  wish  I'd  had  you  always  with  me.  If  you'd 
been  near,  I  might  have  been  happier.  How  on  earth  could  I 
ever  have  ventured  to  mistrust  you ! " 

They  talked  long  and  low  in  their  confidences  to  one  another, 
each  pouring  out  her  whole  arrears  of  time,  and  each  under- 
standing for  the  first  moment  many  things  that  had  long  beeu 


^ 


\h 


280 


THIS  MORTAL  ClOL, 


r*l 


r 


Btran{<ely  obscure  to  them.  At  last  Winifred  repeated  the  tale 
of  her  two  or  three  late  btormy  interviews  with  her  husband. 
She  told  them  trutlifully,  just  as  they  occurred — extenuating 
nothing  on  either  side — down  to  the  very  words  she  had  used 
to  Hu{i,h :  "  You've  tried  to  mtirdcr  nie  by  slow  torture,  that 
you  might  marry  Klsie :"  and  tliat  other  terrible  sentence  she 
had  spoken  out  that  very  evening  to  Warron :  **  lie  sliall  not 
enter  this  room  again  till  he  enters  it  to  see  me  laid  out  for 
burial." 

Elsie  shuddered  with  unspeakable  awe  and  horror  when  that 
frail  young  girl,  so  delicate  of  mould  and  so  graceful  of  feature 
even  still,  uttered  those  awful  words  of  vindictive  rancour 
against  the  man  she  had  pledged  her  troth  to  love  and  to 
honour.  "  Oh,  Winifred  I "  she  cried,  looking  down  at  her  with 
mingled  pity  and  terror  traced  in  every  line  of  her  compassion- 
ate face,  '*  you  didn't  say  that  1  You  could  never  have  meant 
it!" 

Winifred  clenched  her  wliite  hands  yet  harder  once  more. 
*'  Yes,  I  did,"  slie  cried.  *'  I  meant  it,  and  I  mean  it.  He's 
hounded  nie  to  death;  and  now  that  I'm  dying,  he  shan't  gloat 
over  me!'' 

**  Winnie,  Winnie,  he's  your  husband,  your  husband ! 
Eemember  what  you  promised  to  do  when  you  married  him." 

"That's  just  what  Mr.  Eelf  said  to  me  this  afternoon," 
Winifred  cried  excitedly.  "  And  I  answered  him  back :  *  He 
never  was  a  husband  of  mine  at  all.  He  was  Elsie's  husband. 
He  loved  Elsie.  He  never  married  me:  he  only  married  the 
manor  of  Whitestrand.  He  shan't  come  near  me  again  while  I 
live.  I  only  want  to  know  before  I  die  that  Elsie  never  helped 
tisat  wretch  to  deceive  me ! '" 

"  And  you  know  that  now,  darling ! " 

"  Elsie,  Elsie,  I  know  it !  Forgive  mo."  She  stretched  out 
her  arms  with  an  appealing  glance. 

Elsie  stooped  down  and  kissed  her  once  more.  "Winnie," 
she  pleaded  in  a  low  soft  voioe, "  he's  your  husband,  after  all. 
Don't  feel  so  bitterly  to  him.  I  know  he's  wronged  you ;  I  know 
he's  blighted  your  dear  life  for  you ;  I  can  see  how  he's  crushed 
your  very  soul  out  by  his  coldness  and  his  cruelty,  and  his  pride 
and  his  sternness.  But  for  all  that,  I  can't  bear  to  hear  you  say 
yoa'll  die  in  anger — die,  and  leave  him  behind  \inforgiven.  Oli, 
for  my  sake,  and  for  your  own  sake,  Winnie,  if  not  for  his— do 
see  him  and  speak  to  him,  just  once,  forgivingly." 

''Never!"  Winifred  answered,  starting  up  on  the  bed  once 
more  with  a  ghastly  energy.  *'  He's  driven  me  to  the  grave  : 
let  him  have  nis  punishment  I " 

Elsie  drew  back,  more  horrified  than  ever.  Her  face  spoke 
better  than  lier  words  to  Winifred.    "  My  darling,"  she  cried, 


AFTER  LONG   OltlEF  AND  PJLV. 


281 


spoke 
cried, 


"you  must  see  him.  You  must  never  die  and  leave  him  so." 
Then  in  a  gentler  voice  she  added  imploringly:  "Forgive  us 
our  trespasses,  as  we  forgive  them  that  trespass  against  us." 

Winifred  buried  her  face  wildly  in  her  bloodless  hands.  "I 
can't,"  slie  moaned  out;  "I  haven't  the  power.  It's  too  late 
now.    He's  been  too  cruel  to  me." ' 

For  many  minutes  together,  Elsie  bent  tenderly  over  her, 
whispering  words  of  consolation  and  comfort  in  her  ears,  while 
"Winifred  listened  and  cried  silently.  At  last,  after  Elsie  bad 
soothed  her  long,  and  wept  over  her  much  with  soft  loving 
touches,  Winifred  looked  up  in  her  face  with  a  wistful  gaze. 
"  I  think,  Elsie,"  she  said  slowly,  "  I  could  bear  to  see  him,  if 
you  would  stop  with  me  here  and  help  me." 

Elsie  shrank  into  herself  with  a  sudden  horror.  That  would 
be  a  crucial  trial,  indeed,  of  her  own  forgiveness  for  the  man 
who  had  wronged  her,  and  her  own  affection  for  poor  dying 
Winifred.  Meet  Hugh  again,  so  painfully,  so  unexpectedl.v  ! 
Come  back  to  him  at  once,  from  the  tomb,  as  it  were,  to  remind 
him  of  his  crime,  and  before  Winifred's  eyes— poor  dying 
Winifred's!  The  very  idea  made  her  shudder  with  alarm. 
"Oh,  Winnio,'slie  cried,  looking  down  upon  her  fri  ud  with  her 
great  gray  ey(  s,  "  I  couldn't  face  him.  I  thought  I  should 
never  see  him  again.    I  daren't  do  it.     You  mustn't  ask  me." 

"Then  you  haven't  forgiven  hhn  yourself  1"  Winifred  burst 
out  eagerly.  "You  lovo  him  still!  You  love  him — and  you 
hate  him  I — Elsie,  that's  just  the  same  as  me.  I  hate  him — but 
I  love  him  ;  oh  !  how  I  do  love  him ! " 

She  spoke  no  more  than  the  simple  truth.  She  was  judging 
Elsie  by  her  own  heart.  With  that  strange  womanly  paradox 
we  so  often  sec,  she  loved  her  husband  even  now,  much  as  she 
hated  him.  It  was  that  indeed  that  made  her  hate  him  so 
much :  her  love  gave  point  to  her  hatred  and  her  jealousy. 

"  No,  darling,"  Elsie  answered,  bending  over  her  closer  and 
speaking  lower  in  her  ear  than  she  had  yet  spoken.  "  I  don't 
love  him;  and  I  don't  hate  him.  I  forgive  him  all!  I've 
forgiven  him  long  ago. — Winnie,  I  love  some  one  else  now. 
I've  given  my  heart  away  at  last,  and  I've  given  it  to  a  better 
man  than  Hugh  Massingcr." 

"Then  why  won't  you  wait  and  help  me  to  see  him?"  Wini- 
fred cried  once  more  in  her  fiery  energy. 

"  Because — I'm  ashamed.  I  can't  look  him  in  the  face ; 
that's  all,  Winnie." 

Winifred  clung  to  her  like  a  frightened  child  to  its  mother's 
skirts.  "Elsie,"  she  burst  out,  with  childish  vo'iemence, 
"  stop  with  me  now  to  the  end !     Don't  ever  leave  me !  " 

Elsie's  heart  sanli  deep  into  her  bosom.  A  horrible  dread 
possessed  her  soul.    She  saw  one  ghastly  possibility  looming 


.' 


r. 


n 


ii: 


m 


"i  f      ,5 


-     THIS  mohtal  coil. 

iHjfore  thom  that  Winifred  never  Rcemccl  to  recognize.  Hugh 
kept  her  letters,  her  watch,  her  relics.  Suppose  he  should  come 
and — recognizing  her  at  once,  betray  his  surviving  passion  for 
herself  before  poor  dying  Winifred  1  She  dared  hardly  face  so 
hideous  a  chance.  And  yet,  she  couldn't  bear  to  untwine  her- 
self from  Winifred's  arms,  that  clung  so  tight  and  so  tenderly 
around  her.  There  was  no  time  to  lose,  however:  she  must 
make  up  her  mind.  "Winifred,"  she  murmurod,  laying  her 
head  close  down  by  the  dying  girl's,  "  I'll  do  as  you  say.  I'll 
stt)p  here  still.  I'll  see  Hugh.  As  long  as  you  live,  I'll  never 
leave  you !  " 

Winifred  loosed  her  arms  one  moment  again,  and  then  flung 
them  in  a  fresh  access  of  feverish  fervour  round  her  recovereil 
friend— hnr  dear  beautiful  Elsio.  "  You'll  stop  here,"  she  cried 
through  her  sobs  and  tears ;  "  you'll  help  me  to  tell  Hugh  I 
forgivo  him." 

"I'll  stop  here,"  Elsio  answered  low,  "and  I'll  help  you  to 
forgive  him." 


CHAPTER  XL. 

AT  REST  AT  LAST. 

Winifred  fell  back  on  tlie  pillows  wearily.  "I  love  him,"  she 
whispered  once  more.  "  lie  hates  mo,  Elsie;  but  in  spite  01  all, 
I  love  him,  I  love  him." 

For  years  she  had  loclc(  d  up  that  secret  in  her  own  soul. 
She  had  told  it  to  no  one,  least  of  all  to  her  husband.  But, 
confined  to  the  narrow  space  of  her  poor  small  heart,  and 
battling  there  with  her  contempt  and  scorn,  it  had  slowly  eaten 
her  very  life  out.  Hating  and  despising  him  for  his  crooked 
ways,  she  loved  him  still,  for  her  old  love's  sake:  with  a 
woman's  singleness  of  heart  and  purpose,  she  throned  him  in 
her  love,  supreme  and  solitary.  And  the  secret  at  last  had 
framed  itself  into  words  and  coufidcd  itself  almost  against  her 
will  to  Elsie. 

Pier  ff/'e  was  growing  very  pale  now.  After  all  this  excite- 
ment, she  needed  rest.  The  inevitable  reaction  was  beginning 
to  sot  in.  She  fumbled  with  her  fingers  on  the  bedclothes 
nervously;  her  face  twitched  with  a  painful  twitching.  The 
symptoms  alarmed  and  frightened  Elsie;  she  opened  the  door 
of  the  little  salon  and  signalled  to  the  English  doctor  to  return 
to  the  bedroom.  Ue  came  in,  and  cast  a  keen  glance  at  the 
bed.  Elsie  looked  up  at  him  with  inquiring  eyes.  The  doctor 
nodded  gravely  and  drew  his  long  beard  through  his  closed 


AT  BEST  AT  LAST. 


283 


cite- 
luing 
othes 
The 
door 
eturn 
t  the 
octor 
loscd 


hand.  "  A  more  question  of  hours,"  he  whisperel  in  licr  ( ar. 
"  It  may  be  dola^od;  it  may  como  at  any  time.  Sho's  ovor- 
taxe  I  her  strength.  Hysteria,  followeJ  by  prop  )rt innate  pros- 
tration.   Hor  heart  may  fail  from  momoiit  to  moment." 

"Where's  her  husband V"  Elsie  cried  in  a  fevur  of  diamny. 
Her  one  wish  now  was  for  Hu^'li  to  present  himself.  She  forgot 
at  once  her  own  terror  and  false  isharae;  she  ro'iiembored  no 
more  her  feminine  shrinking;  self  had  vanished  from  her  mind 
altojrether;  she  thought  only  of  poor  dying  VVinifrod.  And  of 
Hugh  too.  For  she  couldn't  boar  to  believe,  even  nftcr  all  she 
had  heard  and  known  of  his  hfe,  that  the  Hu^h  she  had  once 
loved  and  trusted  could  let  his  wife  thus  die  in  his  absence  — 
could  let  her  die,  himself  unforgiven. 

"I've  sent  him  off  about  his  business  for  an  hour's  stroll," 
the  doctor  answered  with  professional  calmness.  "She's  evi- 
dently in  a  highly  hysterical  condition,  and  the  sight  of  him 
only  increases  her  excitement.  It's  a  sad  case,  but  a  painfully 
CDiumou  one.  A  husband's  presence  is  often  the  very  worst 
thing  on  earth  for  a  patient  so  atfected.  I  thought  it  would 
do  her  far  more  good  to  have  you  alone  with  her — you'ro 
always  so  gentle  and  so  S')othing,  Miss  Challoner." 

Elsie  glanced  back  at  him  with  swimming  eyes.  "  But  sup- 
pose she  were  to  die  while  he's  gone,"  she  murmured  low  with 
profound  emotion. 

The  doctor  pursed  up  his  lips  philosophically.  "  It  can't  bo 
helped,"  he  answered  with  a  faint  shrug.  "  Tliat's  just  what'll 
happen,  I'm  very  ranch  afraid.  We  can  only  do  the  best  we 
can.    This  crisis  has  evidently  been  too  severe  for  her." 

As  he  spoke,  Winifred  turned  up  from  the  bed  an  appealing" 
face,  and  beckoned  Elsie  to  bend  down  closer  to  her.    "  Elsie," 
she  whispered,  in  a  low  hoarse  voice,  "  send  out  for  Hugh.    I 
want  him  now. — I  should  like  to  kiss  him  before  I  die.    I  think 
I'm  going.    I  won't  last  much  longer." 

Elsie  hurried  out  to  Warren  in  the  anteroom.  "Go,"  she 
cried  eagerly,  through  her  blinding  tears — "go  and  find  Hugh. 
Winifred  wants  him;  she  wants  to  kiss  him  before  she  dies. 
Look  for  him  through  all  the  streets  till  you  find  him,  and  send 
him  home.    She  wants  to  forgive  him." 

Warren  gazed  close  at  her  with  reverent  eyes.  "She  wants 
to  forgive  him,  Elsie?"  he  cried  half  incredulous.  "She  wants 
to  forgive  him,  that  hard  little  woman  I  You've  brought  her 
round  to  that  already  V  " 

"  Yes,"  Elsie  answered. — "  Go  quick  and  find  him.  She  isn't 
hard;  she's  tender  as  a  child.  She's  dying  now— dying  of 
cramped  and  thwarted  affection.  In  another  half-hour,  it  may 
be  too  late.    Go  at  once,  I  beg  of  you." 

Warren  answered  her  never  a  single  word,  but,  nodding 


4< 


, 

1 

.i'l 

..      UMi 

kl 

284 


TUI8  MORTAL  COIL, 


:; 


I  '•'■ 


U  '■'.  ' 


ii%  ■» 


Rcqnioscenco,  rushcfl  down  by  hiriiKelf  to  tlio  esplanade  and 
the  Bhore  in  search  of  his  enoiiiy.  Poor  bartlcd  enemy,  how 
liis  heart  ached  tor  him!  At  buch  a  inomeut,  who  could  help 
jiitying  liim? 

'*  Is  he  coiniriR?"  Winifred  aKkfd  from  the  bed  feebly. 

"Not  yet,  darling,"  KIsio  answered  in  a  hushed  voice;  "but 
XNavren's  gone  out  to  try  and  find  him.  He'll  bo  here  boou. 
Lie  still  and  wait  for  him." 

Winifred  lay  quite  still  for  fiomo  minutes  more,  breathing 
Imrd  and  loud  on  the  bed  where  they  had  laid  her.  Tiio 
ino'iients  appeared  to  spread  themselves  over  hours.  But  no 
Hugh  came.  At  last  she  beckoned  Elsie  nearer  again,  witli 
a  frail  hand  that  seemed  almost  to  have  lost  all  power  of  motion. 
Elsie  leant  over  her  with  lier  ear  laid  close  to  Winifred's  lips. 
Tlie  poor  girl's  voice  sounded  very  weak  and  all  but  inaudible 
now.  "  I  can't  last  till  he  comes,  Elsie,"  she  murmured  low. 
"But  till  him  I  forgave  hira.  Tell  hira  I  asked  him  to  forgive 
me  in  turn.  Tell  him  I  wanted  to  kiss  him  good-bye.  But 
even  that  last  wish  was  denied  mo.  And  Klsie" — her  fingers 
clutched  her  friend's  convulsively — "tell  him  all  along  I've 
a' ways  loved  him.  I  loved  him  from  the  very  depths  of  iriy 
soul.  I  never  loved  any  one  as  I  loved  that  man.  When  I 
hated  him  most,  I  loved  hira  dearly.  It  was  my  very  love  that 
made  me  so  hate  him.  He  starved  my  heart;  and  now  it's 
biokeu." 

Elsie  stooped  down  and  kissed  her  forehead.  A  smiie  playo  I 
lambent  over  Winifred's  face  at  the  gentle  kiss.  The  doctor 
lifted  his  open  hand  in  warning.  Elsie  bent  over  her  with 
gathered  brows  and  strained  her  eyes  for  a  sign  of  breath  for 
a  moment.  "Gone?"  she  asked  at  last  with  mute  lips  of  the 
doctor. 

"  Gone,"  the  calmer  observer  answered  with  a  grave  inclina- 
tion of  his  head  toward  F'sie.  "Eapid  collapse.  A  singular 
case.    She  suffered  no  pain  ..t  the  last,  poor  lady." 

Elsie  flung  herself  wildly  into  an  easy-chair  and  burst  into 
tears  more  burning  than  ever. 

A  touch  on  her  shoulder.  She  looked  up  with  a  start.  Could 
this  be  Hugh  ?  Thank  Heaven,  no !  It  was  Warren  who  touched 
her  shoulder  lightly.  Half  an  hour  had  passed,  and  ho  had 
now  come  back  a^ain.  But,  alas,  too  late.  "No  need  to  stop 
here  any  longer,"  he  said  reverently.  "Hugh's  downstairs, 
and  they're  breaking  the  news  to  him.  He  doesn't  know  yet 
you're  here  at  all.  I  didn't  speak  to  him.  I  thought  some 
other  person  would  move  him  more.  I  saw  him  on  tlie  quay, 
and  I  sent  an  Italian  I  met  on  the  beach  to  tell  hira  he  was 
wanted,  and  his  wife  was  dying. — Cume  up  to  my  room  on  the 


w 


AT  JtEST  AT  LAST, 


285 


floor  al)OVo.    Htipli  needn't  know  even  now,  perhaps,  that  you're 
hero  at  San  Ilunio." 

Too  full  to  speak,  Elsio  followed  him  blindly  from  the  chamber 
of  death,  and  stumbled  somehow  up  tlie  broad  flight  of  Btairs  to 
Warren's  upiirtmentR  on  the  next  story.  As  she  reached  tho 
top  of  the  ()]un  flight,  she  heard  a  Voice— a  fmiiliar  voice,  tliat 
would  oni'e  have  tin-illed  her  to  tho  v(!iy  luart— on  the  landiii}^ 
below,  by  WiiiilVud's  bedroom.  ISliaiue  and  fascination  dniw 
her  tlitTcrent  wnys.  Fascination  won.  She  couldn't  resist  tho 
dangerous  tempiation  to  look  over  the  edge  of  the  banisters  for 
a  second.  Iliigii  had  just  mounted  tlio  stairs  from  the  hip; 
entrance  hall,  and  Mas  talking  by  the  door  in  measured  tonoa 
with  tho  Knglish  doctor. 

"  Very  well,"  lie  said  in  his  cold  stern  voice,  the  voice  he  had 
always  used  to  Winil'red — a  little  lowcirod  by  conventional  re- 
B))nct,  indeed,  but  scarcely  so  subdued  as  tlie  doctor's  own. 
"I'm  prepared  for  tho  \vor4.  If  she's  dead,  say  so.  You 
nt  edn't  be  afraid  of  shocking  my  feelings ;  I  expected  it  shortly." 

She  could  see  his  faee  distinctly  from  tlie  fi|  ot  where  sho 
stood,  and  she  shrank  back  aghast  at  once  from  the  sight  with 
siu'prise  and  horror.  It  was  Hugh  to  be  sure,  but  oh,  what  a 
Hugh!  How  changed  and  altered  from  that  light  and  bright 
young  dilettante  poet  she  had  loved  and  worshijiped  in  the  old 
days  at  Wliitestrand!  His  very  fori n  and  features,  and  limbs 
and  figure  were  no  longer  the  same;  all  were  unlike,  and  the 
diiference  was  all  to  their  disadvantage.  The  man  had  not  oidy 
grown  st(!rncr  and  harder;  he  was  coarser  and  commoner  and 
less  striking  than  formerly.  His  very  style  had  suftered  visible 
degeneration.  No  more  of  the  jaunty  old  poetical  air;  turnips 
an(i  foot-and-mouth  disease,  the  arrears  of  lent  and  the  strnggle 
against  reduction,  the  shitting  sands  and  the  weight  of  the 
riparian  i)roprietor8'  question,  had  ail  left  their  mark  stamped 
deep  in  ngly  lines  upon  his  face  and  figure.  He  was  handsome 
still,  but  in  a  less  refined  and  delicate  type  of  manly  beauty. 
Tho  hmg  smouldering  war  between  himself  and  Winifred  had 
clianged  his  expression  to  a  dogged  ill-humour.  His  eyes  had 
grown  dull  and  sordid  and  sellish,  his  lips  had  assumed  a  sullen 
set,  and  a  raggi.Ml  beard  with  unkempt  ends  had  disfigured  that 
clear-cut  and  dainty  chin  that  was  tnico  so  eloquent  of  poetry 
and  culture.  Altogether,  it  was  but  a  pile  and  flabby  version 
of  the  old,  old  Hugh — a  rejilica  from  wliose  head  the  halo  had 
faded.  Elsie  looked  down  on  him  from  her  height  of  vantage 
with  a  thrill  of  utter  and  ho))eless  disillusionment.  Then  slie 
turned  with  a  pang  of  remorse  to  Warren.  Was  it  really  pos- 
sible? Was  there  once  a  time  when  site  thought  in  her  heart 
that  self-centred,  hard-hearted,  cold-featured  creature  more 
than  a  match  for  such  a  man  as  Warron  ? 
10 


y\ 


.^, 


f 


i 

I' 


II 


280 


THIS  MORTAL   CO  J  J. 


"She  in  flo.ul,"  the  rlontor  answered  witli  profossional  respoct. 
"She  (lied  half  an  hour  ago,  qiiito  luippy.  Her  one  regiot 
Becnied  to  bo  for  your  abKoiico.  She  was  anxiously  expecting 
yon  to  come  back  and  kco  licr," 

Huf;h  only  answert'd:  "I  thonpht  so.  Poor  cliild."  But  the 
very  way  lie  said  it— tiio  half-unconceniod  tone,  the  lack  of  imy 
real  depth  of  emotion,  nay,  even  of  the  decent  pretence  of  tearn, 
shocked  and  appalled  Elsie  beyond  measure.  She  rushed  away 
into  Warren's  room,  and  pave  vent  once  more  to  her  torrent  of 
emotion.  Tito  ])aiiit((r  laid  hift  hand  peiilly  on  her  beantifiU 
hair.  "  Oh,  Warren,"  she  cried,  lookinp;  np  at  him  half  doubtful, 
"  it  makes  me  iishamed "    And  she  checked  herself  suddenly. 

"Ashamed  of  what?"  Wnrren  asked  her  low. 

In  the  ft!ver  of  her  overwrought  feelings,  she  flung  lierself 
jMiKsionntely  into  his  circling  arms.  "Ashamed  to  think,"  ishe 
answered  with  a  sob  of  distress,  "  that  I  onco  loved  hira  1 " 


CHAPTER  XLI. 

REDIVIVA ! 

Hugh  sit  tliat  evening,  that  crowded  evening,  alone  in  his 
dingy,  stingy  rooms  with  his  dead  Winifred.  Alone  with  his 
weary,  dreajy  thoughts — his  thoughts,  antl  a  eor])se,  and  a 
ghostly  presence !  Two  women  had  loved  him  dearly  in  their 
time,  and  ho  had  killed  them  both — Elsie  and  Winifred.  That 
was  the  burden  of  his  moody  brooding.  What  curse,  he  asked 
himself,  lay  upon  his  hcaci  ?  And  his  own  heart  told  him,  in 
fitful  moments  of  remorse,  the  curse  of  utter  and  ingrained 
selfishness.  He  protended  not  to  listen  to  it  or  to  believe  its 
witness;  but  ho  knew  it  spoke  true,  true  and  clear  in  spite  of 
itself. 

He  sat  there  bitterly,  late  into  the  night,  with  two  candles 
burning  dim  on  the  bare  tal)le  by  his  side,  and  his  head  buried 
between  his  feverish  hands  in  gloomy  misery.  It  was  a  hatef\il 
night — hateful  and  ghastly ;  for  in  the  bedroom  at  the  side,  the 
attendants  of  death,  despatched  by  the  doctor,  were  already 
busy  at  their  gruesome  work,  i3erforming  the  last  duties  for 
poor  martyred  Winifred. 

He  had  offered  her  up  on  the  altar  of  his  selfish  remorse  and 
regret  for  poor  martyred  Elsie.  The  last  victim  had  fal  len  on 
the  grave  of  the  first.  She,  too,  was  dead.  And  now  his  house 
was  indeed  left  unto  him  desolate. 

Somehow,  as  he  sat  there,  with  wliirling  brain  and  heated 


JiEDIVJVA! 


287 


indies 
Imriod 
lateful 
\g,  tlie 

(cs  for 

be  and 
ien  on 
1  house 

licated 


l)i'ow,  on  firo  in  Ronl,  lio  tlion}j;ht  of  El.sio  far  moro  than  of 
Winifred.  Tho  now  bcroavonmiit,  Buch  as  it  was,  scorned  to 
quicken  and  aocentuato  the  sonpo  of  tho  old  one.  Was  it  that 
Winifred's  wild  belief  in  her  r(!CO{:?nition  of  KIsio  that  day  in  tho 
street  had  roURi  d  once  moro  the  pi,('turo  of  his  lost  U)Vo'6  faco 
and  form  ro  viviilly  in  his  mind  ?  Or  was  it  that  tho  girl  whom 
Winifred  had  i)ointod  out  to  him  did  really  to  some  slight  extent 
resemble  Klsio?  and  so  recall  her  more  definitely  before  him? 
IIo  hardly  knew ;  but  of  ono  thing  ho  was  certain — Elsio  thai 
night  monopolized  liis  consciousness.  His  three-year-old  grief 
was  still  fresh  and  greeu.  Uo  thought  much  of  Elsie,  and  little 
of  Winifred. 

It  was  a  fixed  idea  with  poor  Winifred,  ho  knew,  that  ELsie 
was  alive  and  setth'd  at  San  Kemo.  How  the  idea  first  came 
into  her  poor  little  head,  he  really  knew  not.  Ho  thouglit  now 
tho  story  about  Warren  Eelf  having  given  her  tho  notion  was 
itself  a  more  piece  of  her  dying  hysterical  delirium.  So  was 
her  confident  inimodiato  identification  of  tho  girl  in  the  street  as 
tho  actual  Elsie.  No  trusting,  of  course,  to  a  dying  woman's 
impressions.  Still,  it  was  strange  that  Winifred  should  have 
died  with  Elsie,  Elsie,  Elsie,  floating  ever  in  her  mind's  eye 
before  her.  Strange,  too,  that  the  second  victim  of  his  Meltish 
love  should  have  died  with  her  soul  so  fiercely  intent  upon  tho 
fixed  and  permanent  imago  of  tho  first  one.  Strauf-^o,  furthoi  - 
more,  that  a  girl  setn  casually  in  tho  street  sIk  uld  u;  a  matter 
of  fact,  even  in  his  own  unprejudiced  eyes,  have  so  ci  "(^ly  and 
curiously  resembled  Elsio.  It  was  all  odd.  It  all  fiiltu'  in  to  a 
nicety  with  the  familiar  patness  of  that  curious  fate  that  seeuK'j^ 
through  life  to  dog  hiin  so  persistently.  Coincidence  jostled 
against  coincidence  to  confound  him  :  opportiinll^  rnn  cheek  by 
jowl  with  occasion  to  work  iiim  ill.  And  yet,  had  ho  but  kuuwD 
the  whole  truth  as  it  really  was,  ho  wouk  have  seen  thero  was 
never  a  genuine  coiucideiico  anywhere  iu  it  all — that  every- 
thing had  come  pat  by  deliberate  design:  that  Winifred  had 
fixed  upon  San  Iteino  on  purpose,  because  she  actually  knew 
Elsie  to  be  living  tlieio :  and  that  the  girl  they  had  seen  in  tho 
street  that  afternoon  was  none  other  than  Elsie  herself— his 
very  Elsie  iu  tlcsh  and  blood,  not  any  vaiu  or  deceptive 
delusion. 

Late  at  night,  the  well-favoured  landlaily  came  up,  courteous 
and  Italian,  all  res])ectf  il  sympathy,  iu  a  black  gown  and  a 
mourning  head-dress,  hastily  donned,  as  becomes  those  who 
pay  visits  of  condolence  in  whatever  cajjacity  to  tho  recently 
bei caved.  As  for  Hugh  himself,  he  wore  still  hia  rough 
travelling  suit  ""  gray  homespun,  and  the  dust  of  his  journey 
lay  thick  upon  im.  But  tio  roused  himself  listlessly  at  the 
landlad.  's  appro;,  h.    She  w  s  bland,  but  sympathetic.    Where 


H  ' 


288 


THIS  MORTAL  COIL. 


U 


!  i  I 


"vvonld  IMonsicnr  sleep?  the  am'able  proprietreps  inqnind  in 
lisping  French.  Hugh  started  at  the  inquiry.  He  had  never 
thought  at  al!  of  that.  Anywhere,  he  answered,  in  a  careless 
voice  :  it  was  all  the  same  to  him :  sons  hs  toits,  if  necessary. 

The  landlady  bowed  a  respectful  deprecation.  She  could  offer 
him  a  small  room,  a  most  diminutive  room,  unfit  for  Monsieur, 
in  liis  present  condition,  but  still  a  chamhre  do.  maitre,  just  above 
Madame.  She  regretted  she  vis  unable  to  afford  a  better;  but 
the  house  was  full,  or,  in  a  worrl,  crowded.  The  world,  you  see, 
■was  beginning  to  arrive  at  San  Eemo  for  the  season.  Proprietors 
in  a  health-resort  naturally  resent  a  death  on  the  premises, 
e-^pecially  at  the  verj  outset  of  the  v;inter:  they  regard  it  as 
a  slight  on  the  sauitaiy  reputation  of  the  place,  and  incline  to 
be  rude  to  the  deceased  and  his  family.  Yet  nothing  could  be 
more  charming  than  the  landlady's  manner;  she  swallowed  her 
natural  internal  chagrin  at  so  untowar<l  an  event  in  her  own 
house  and  at  srch  an  untimely  crisis,  with  commendable  polite- 
ness. One  would  have  said  that  a  death  rather  advertised  the 
condition  of  the  house  than  otherwise.  Hugh  nodded  his  head 
in  blind  acqniescenco  "  Oil  vons  voulez,  Madame,"  he  answered 
wearily.  "  Uj^stairs,  if  yon  wish.  I'll  go  now, — I'm  sori-y  to 
have  caused  yon  so  much  inconvenience;  but  we  never  know 
when  these  unfortunate  atVairs  are  likely  to  hapi  en.'* 

The  landlady  considered  in  her  own  mind  that  the  gentleman's 
tone  was  of  the  most  distinguished.  Such  sweet  manners  !  So 
thouglitful — so  considerate — so  kindly  respectful  for  the  house's 
injured  feelings!  She  was  conscious  that  his  courtesy  called 
for  some  slight  return.  "  You  have  eaten  nothing,  Monsieur,'' 
File  went  on,  compassionately.  "In  effect,  our  sorrow  makes  us 
forget  these  details  of  everyday  life.  You  do  not  derange  us  at 
all ;  but  you  must  let  mo  send  you  up  some  little  refreshment." 

Hugh  nodded  again. 

She  sent  him  up  some  cake  and  red  wine  of  the  country  by 
the  Swiss  waiter,  and  Hugh  ate  it  mechanically,  for  he  was  not 
hungry.  Excitement  and  fatigue  had  worn  him  out.  His  game 
was  played.  He  followed  the  waiter  up  to  the  floor  above,  and 
wa>!  shown — into  the  next  room  to  Warren's. 

He  undressed  in  a  siupid,  half  dead-alive  way,  and  lay  down 
on  the  bed  with  his  candle  still  burning.  But  he  didn't  sleep. 
Weariness  and  remorse  k^  pt  him  wide  awake,  worn  out  as  ho 
was,  tossing  and  turning  through  the  long  slow  hours  in  silent 
agony.  Ho  had  time  to  sound  the  whole  gamut  of  possible 
human  passion.  He  thought  of  Elsie,  the  weary  night  through : 
of  dead  Elsie,  and  at  times,  more  rarely,  of  dead  VVinifred  too, 
alone  in  the  chamber  of  death  beneath  him.  Elsie,  in  her 
nameless  grave  away  at  Orfordness :  VVinifred,  unburied  below, 
here  at  San  liemo.    A  wild  unrest  possessed  his  fevered  limbs. 


.UEDI'^IVA! 


289 


einan  s 
s!  So 
ouse's 
called 
siuiir,"' 
kes  us 
us  at 
ent." 

itry  by 
^•as  not 
game 
fQ,  aud 

down 

sleep. 

as  ho 

silent 

)S2ible 

rough : 

3d  too, 

in  her 

[below, 

1  limbs. 


Tie  murmured  Elsie's  name  to  himself,  in  audible  tones,  a 
huuilred  times  over. 

Strange  to  pay,  the  souse  of  freedom  was  the  strongo'^t  of  all 
the  feelings  Ihat  crowded  in  upon  him.  Now  tliat  Wii.ifred 
was  dead,  lie  could  do  ns  lie  cho.so  with  his  own.  IIo  was  no 
longer  tied  to  her  will  nnd  her  criticisms.  When  he  c,ot  back 
1o  Eigliinl— as  he  would  get  back,  of  course,  the  mouieut  he 
had  decently  buried  Winifred — he  meant  to  put  up  a  fitting 
gravestone  at  Oifoidness,  if  he  sold  the  wretched  remainder  of 
Whitestrand  to  do  it.  A  granite  cross  should  mark  that  sacred 
spot.  Deiid  I'Jsio's  grave  should  no  longer  be  nameless.  So 
much,  at  least,  his  remorse  could  effect  for  him. 

For  W^inifred  was  dead  and  Whitestrand  was  his  own.  At 
the  price  of  that  miserahlo  manor  of  blown  sand  lie  had  sold 
his  own  soul  and  Elsie's  life;  and  now  he  would  gladly  get  rid 
of  it  all,  if  only  he  could  raise  out  of  its  slirunken  relics  a 
monument  at  Orfordncss  to  Elsie.  For  three  long  years, 
that  untended  grave  had  silently  accused  the  remnants  of 
his  conscience :  he  determiLcd  it  should  accuso  his  soul  no 
lonjier. 

He  would  have  to  bcrin  life  all  over  again,  of  course.  This 
firist  throw  hail  turned  out  a  fatfil  error.  He  had  staked 
everything  upon  winning  Whitestrand;  and  with  what  result? 
Elsie  lost,  and  Whitestrand,  and  Winifred!  Eoss  all  round: 
loss  and  confusion.  In  the  end,  he  found  himself  far  won-e  off 
than  ho  had  ever  been  at  the  very  outset,  when  tlie  world  was 
slill  before  him  where  to  choose.  No  new  career  now  opened 
its  doors  to  him.  The  bar  was  closed  :  he  had  had  his  chanco 
there,  and  missed  it  squarely.  Bohemia  was  estranged ;  small 
room  for  him  now  in  literature  or  journa  ism.  Wliitestraiid  had 
sjioilt  his  whole  scheniu  of  life  for  him.  He  was  wrecked  in 
port.    And  he  could  never  meet  with  another  Elsie. 

The  big  clock  on  the  landing  ticked  monotonously.  Each 
swing  of  the  pendulum  tortured  him  afresh  ;  for  it  called  ahmd 
to  his  heart  in  measured  tones.  It  cried  as  plain  as  words  could 
say :  "  Elsie,  Elsie,  Elsie,  Elsie  I " 

Ah,  yes !  Ho  was  young  enough  to  begin  life  afresh,  if  that 
■were  all.  To  begin  all  over  again  is  less  than  nothing  to  a 
brave  man.  Ent  for  whom  or  for  what?  Seltish  as  he  was, 
Hugh  Massingor  couldn't  stand  up  and  face  the  horrid  idea  of 
beginning  afresh  for  himself  alone.  He  must  have  some  one  to 
love,  or  go  under  for  ever. 

And  still  the  cloek  ticked  and  ticked  on :  and  still  it  cried  in 
the  silence  of  tlie  night:  *'  Elsie,  Elsie,  Elsie,  Elsie  !" 

At  last  day  dawned,  and  the  morning  broke.  Pale  sunlight 
streamed  in  at  the  one  south  window.  The  room  was  bare — a 
mere  servant's  attic.    Hugh  lay  still  and  looked  at  the  gaping 


t     i 


ii 


290 


THIS  MORTAL   COIL. 


I 


cracks  that  diversified  the  gandily  painted  Ilalian  ceiling.  All 
night  through,  he  had  fervently  longed  for  the  morning,  and 
thought  when  it  came  he  would  seize  the  first  chance  to  rise 
and  dress  liimself.  Now  it  had  really  come,  he  lay  there  un- 
moved, too  tired  and  too  feeble  to  think  of  stirring. 

Five — six — half- past  six— seven.  He  almost  dozed  out  of  pure 
weariness. 

Suddenly,  he  woke  with  a  quick  start.  A  knock  at  the  door ! 
— a  timid  knock.  Somebody  come  with  a  message,  apparently. 
Hugh  rose  in  haste,  and  held  the  door  just  a  little  ajar  to  ask  in 
his  bad  Italian,  "  What  is  it  ?  " 

A  boy's  hand  thrust  a  letter  sidewaj's  through  the  narroAv 
opening.  "  Is  it  for  you,  signor  ?  "  he  asked,  peering  with  black 
eyes  through  the  chink  at  the  Englishman. 

Hugh  glanced  at  the  letter  in  profound  astonishment.  Oh, 
Heavens,  what  was  this?  How  incredible — how  mysterious! 
For  a  moment  the  room  swam  wildly  around  hina;  he  hardly 
knew  how  to  believe  his  eyes.  Was  it  part  of  the  general 
bewilderment  of  things  that  seemed  to  conspire  by  constant 
shocks  against  his  perfect  sanity?  Was  he  going  mad,  or  was 
some  enemy  trying  to  confuse  and  confound  him  ?  Had  some 
wretch  been  dabbling  in  hideous  forgeries  ?  For  the  envelope 
was  addressed— Oh,  horror  of  horrors ! — in  dead  Elsie's  hand ; 
and  it  bore  in  those  well-known  angular  characters  the  simple 
inscription,  "  Warren  Kelf,  Esq.,  Villa  della  Foutana  (Piano 
3°),  Avenue  Vittorio  Emmanuele,  San  Remo." 

Ha  recognized  this  voice  from  the  grave  at  once.  Dead  Elsie ! 
To  Warren  Relf  I  His  lingers  clutched  it  with  a  tierce  mad  grip. 
He  could  never  give  it  up.  To  Warren  Eelf !  And  from  dead 
Elsie! 

"  Is  it  for  you,  signor  ?  "  the  boy  asked  once  more,  as  ho  let  it 
go  with  reluctance  from  his  olive-brown  fingers. 

"For  me?— Yes,"  Hugh  answered,  still  clutching  it  eagerly. 
**  For  me !— Who  sends  it  ?  " 

"  The  signorina  at  the  Villa  Rossa — Signorina  Cialoner,"  the 
boy  replied,  getting  as  near  as  his  Italian  lips  could  manage  to 
the  sound  of  Clialloner.  "She  told  me  most  stringently  to 
deliver  it  up  to  yourself,  signor,  into  your  proper  fingers,  and 
on  no  account  to  let  it  fall  into  the  hands  of  the  English  gentle- 
man on  the  second  story." 

"  Good,"  Hugh  answered,  closing  the  door  softly.  "  That's 
quite  right.  Tell  her  you  gave  it  me."  Then  he  added  in 
English  with  a  cry  of  triumph :  "  Good  morning,  jackanapes ! " 
After  which  he  flung  himself  down  on  the  bed  once  more  in  a 
perfect  frenzy  of  indecision  and  astonishment. 

For  two  minutes  he  couldn't  make  up  his  mind  to  break  open 
that  mysterious  missive  from  the  world  of  the  dead,  so  strangely 


EEDIVIVAl 


291 


?hat's 
3d  in 

Des!" 
in  a 

open 
[ugely 


delivered  by  an  unknown  hand  at  his  own  door  on  the  very 
morrow  of  Winifred's  sudden  death,  and  addressed  in  buried 
Elsie's  hand,  as  clear  as  of  old,  to  his  dearest  enemy.  What  a 
horrible  concatenation  of  significant  circumstances !  He  tur.ned 
it  over  and  over  again,  unopened,  in  his  awe ;  and  all  the  time 
that  morose  clock  ortside  still  ticke  X  in  his  ear,  less  loudly  than 
before :  "  Elsie,  Elsie,  Elsie,  Eisie ! " 

At  last,  making  up  his  mind  with  a  start,  he  opened  it,  half 
overcome  with  a  pervading  sense  of  mystery.  And  this  was 
what  he  read  in  it,  beyond'  shadow  of  doubt,  in  dead  Elsie's 
very  own  handwriting : 

"  Villa  Rossa,  Thursday,  7.30,  morning. 

"Dearest  Wahren, 

"  I  will  be  ready,  as  you  suggest,  by  the  9.40.  Bnt 
you  mustn't  go  with  me  farther  than  Paris.  That  will  allow 
you  to  get  back  to  Edie  and  the  Motherkin  by  the  6.39  on 
Saturday  evening. — I  wish  I  could  have  waited  here  in  San 
l^emo  till  after  dear  Winifred's  funeral  was  over;  but  I  quite 
see  with  you  how  dangerous  such  a  course  might  prove.  Every 
moment  I  stoi)  exposes  me  to  the  chance  of  an  unexpected 
meeting.  You  must  call  on  Hugh  when  you  get  back  from 
Paris,  and  give  him  poor  Winifred's  last  forgiving  message. 
Some  day — lou  know  when,  dearest — I  may  face  seeing  him 
niyself,  perhaps ;  and  then  I  can  fulfil  my  promise  to  her  in 
person.  But  not  till  then.  And  tiiat  may  be  never.  I  hardly 
know  what  I'm  writing,  I  feel  so  dazed ;  but  I'll  meet  you  at 
the  station  at  the  hour  you  mention. — No  time  for  more.  In 
great  haste— my  hand  shakes  with  the  shock  still — 
"  Yours  ever  lovingly  and  devotedly, 

"  Elsie." 

The  revulsion  was  awful.  For  a  minute  or  two  Hugh  failed 
to  take  it  all  in.  You  cannot  unthink  past  years  at  a  jump. 
The  belief  that  Elsie  was  dead  and  buried  at  Orfordness  had 
grown  so  ingrained  in  the  fabric  of  his  brain  that  at  first  he 
suspected  deliberate  treachery.  Such  things  have  been.  He 
had  forged  himself:  might  not  Warren  Eelf,  that  incarnate 
fiend,  be  turning  his  own  weapon — meanly — against  him  ? 

But  as  he  gazed  and  gazed  at  dead  Elsie's  hand — dead  Elsie's 
own  hand — unmistakably  hers — no  forger  on  earth  (not  even 
himseU)  was  ever  half  so  clever — the  truth  grew  gradually 
clearer  and  clearer.  Dead  Elsie  was  Elsie  dead  no  longer ;  she 
had  escaped  on  that  awful  evening  at  Whitestrand.  It  wasn't 
Elsie  at  all  that  was  buiicd  in  ttie  nameless  grave  at  Orford- 
ness. The  past  was  a  lie.  The  present  alone — the  present  was 
true.    Elsie  was  here,  to-day,  at  fc-an  Remol 


292 


THIS  MORTAL   COIL. 


\Mmi 


With  a  great  thrill  of  joy,  that  fact  at  last  camo  clearly  homo 
to  him.  The  world  whirled  back  through  the  ajiCJ*  agsiin. 
Then  Elsie,  his  Elsie,  was  still  living  I  He  hadn't  killed  her. 
He  was  no  murderer.  It  was  all  a  hideous,  hideous  mistake. 
The  weight,  the  weight  was  lifted  from  his  soul.  A  mad  delight 
usurped  its  place.  His  heart  throbhed  with  a  wild  pulsation. 
'J'he  clock  on  the  staircase  ticked  loud  for  joy :  "  Elsie,  Elsie, 
Elsie,  Elsie  I " 

Ho  buried  his  face  in  his  hands  and  wept — wept  as  he  never 
hnd  wept  for  Winifred  —wept  as  he  never  had  we])t  in  his  life 
before — wept  with  frantic  gladness  for  Elsie  recovered. 

Slowly  his  conceptions  framed  themselves  anew.  His  mind 
could  only  take  it  all  in  piecemeal.  Bit  by  bit  he  set  himself 
to  the  task — no  less  a  task  than  to  reconstruct  the  universe. — 
Winifred  must  have  known  Elsie  was  here.  It  was  Elsie  her- 
self that  Winificd  and  he  had  J-een  yesterday. 

Fresh  thoughts  poured  in  upon  him  in  a  bewildering  flood. 
He  was  dazzled,  dazed,  dumfouiided  with  their  number.  Elsie 
was  alive,  and  lie  had  sometliing  left,  therefore,  to  live  for. 
Yesterday  morning  that  knowled^^e  would  have  been  less  than 
nothing  worth  to  him  while  Winifred  lived.  To-day,  thank 
Heaven — for  Winifred  was  dead — it  meant  more  to  him  than  all 
the  wealth  of  Croesus. 

Ho  saw  through  that  miserable  money-grubbing  now.  Gold, 
indeed !  what  better  was  gold  than  any  other  chemical  ele- 
mintV  Next  time — next  time,  he  would  choose  more  wisely. 
Wisdom  in  life,  he  thought  to  himself  with  a  flash  of  philo- 
sophy, means  just  this — to  know  what  things  will  bring  you 
most  happiness. 

Hviw  opportunely  Winifred  had  disappeared  from  the  scene! 
In  the  nick  of  time — on  the  very  stroke  and  crisis  of  his  fate! 
At  the  turn  of  the  tide  that  leads  on  to  fortune!  Fdix  oppor- 
innitate  mortis,  indeed !  He  had  no  regret,  no  remorse  now,  for 
poor  betrayed  and  martyred  Winifred. 

Winifred!  What  was  Winifred  to  him,  or  ho  to  Winifred,  in 
a  world  ^.lai,  still  held  his  own  beloved  Elsie  ? 

How  vividly  those  words  camo  back  to  him  now :  **  Don't  I 
know  how  you've  bronglit  me  to  San  Kemo,  dving  as  I  am,  to 
be  near  her  and  to  see  her  when  I'm  dead  and  buried !  You've 
tried  to  murder  me  by  slow  degrees,  to  marry  Elsie  ! — Well, 
you've  carried  your  point:  you've  killed  me  at  last;  and  when 
I'm  dead  and  gone,  you  can  marry  Elsie." 

He  hadn't  meant  it;  he  had  never  dreamt  of  it.  But  how 
neat  and  exact  it  had  all  come  out!  How  foitune,  whom  ho 
reviled,  had  been  playing  his  game!  His  sorrow  was  turned  at 
once  into  wild  rejoicing.  Winifred  dead  and  Elsie  living! 
What  fairy  t?'lo  ever  ended  so  pat?    He  repeated  it  over  and 


It  ED  J  VIVA  t 


203 


ly. 

o- 


sne! 

te! 


Lin 


rhcii 

how 

ho 

(1  at 

ing! 


over  apain  to  liiinself:  "They   were  both  married  nnd  lived 
haj.pily  ever  after." 

Ail's  Well  that  ends  well.  Tlio  Winifred  episode  had  conic 
and  gone.    But  Elsie  remained  as  porniaiont  backizroiind. 

And  how  stranply  Winifred  herself,  in  her  mnd  desire,  had 
contribute  d  to  this  very  denouement  of  his  troubles.  "  I  shall 
go  to  San  Eerao,  if  I  go  at  all,  and  to  nowhere  else  on  the  whole 
Eiviera.  I  prefer  to  face  the  worst,  tliiink  yon!  "  The  words 
flashed  back  with  fresh  meaning  on  his  soul.  Jf  she  hadn't  so 
set  her  whole  heart  on  San  Ueino,  he  himself  would  never  have 
thought  of  going  there.  Ard  then,  he  would  never  have  known 
about  Elsie.    For  that,  at  least,  he  had  to  thank  Winifred. 

"  When  I'm  dead  and  gone,  you  can  marry  Elsie  ! " 

33ut  what  was  this  discordiint  note  in  the  letter — Elsie's 
letter— to  Warren  Eelf — Warren  l^elf,  liis  dearest  enemy? 
Was  Warren  Pielf  at  the  jjension,  then  ?  Had  Warren  Keif 
been  cons])iring  against  him?  In  another  flash,  it  all  cnmn 
back  to  him — the  two  scenes  at  the  Clieyne  Row  Club — Warren's 
conversation  with  his  friend  Potts— the  mis- takes  and  errors  of 
his  hasty  preconceptions.  How  one  fundamental  primordial 
blunder  had  coloured  and  distorted  nil  his  views  of  the  case ! 
He  felt  sure  now,  morally  sure,  that  Warren  Eelf  had  rescued 
Elsie — the  sneak,  the  eavesdropper,  in  his  mii^erab!e  mud-boat! 
And  yet — if  Warven  b'clf  hadn't  done  so,  tliero  would  be  no 
Elsie  at  all  for  1  im  now  to  live  for.  Ho  recognized  the  fact; 
and  he  hated  him  for  it.  That  he  should  owe  his- Elsie  to  that 
cur,  that  serpent ! 

And  all  these  years  Warren  Relf — insidious  creature — had 
kept  her  in  hiding,  for  his  own  base  objects,  and  had  tried  to 
wriggle  himself,  with  snake-like  and  lizard-like  contortions  and 
twistings,  into  Hugh's  own  rightful  place  in  Elsie's  affections! 
The  mean,  mean  reptile  1  to  worm  his  way  in  secret  into  the 
sacred  love  of  another  man's  maiden  !  Hugh  loathed,  and  hated 
him! 

Discordant  note !  Why,  yes — see  this :  "  Some  day— ?/o?« 
know  when,  dearest — I  may  faf  e  seeing  him  myself,  perhaps." — 
Then  surely  Elsie  must  liave  con.sented  to  fling  herself  away 
upon  l^elf,  as  he,  Hugh,  had  flung  himself  away  upon  Winifred. 
But  that  was  before  Winifred  died.  Ho  was  free  now— free, 
free  as  tlie  wind,  to  marry  Elsie.  And  Elsie  would  marry  him: 
he  was  sure  of  that.  Elsie's  heart  would  come  back  to  roost 
like  his  own,  on  the  old  perch.  Elsie  would  never  belie  her 
love  !    ELsie  would  love  him  ;  Elsie  would  marry  him. 

What!  Accept  that  creature  Keif  in  his  own  i)laco?  Hy- 
perion to  a  Satyr !  Impossible!  Incredible!  Post  all  conctep- 
tion!  No  Eve  would  listen  to  such  a  serpent  nowadays. 
Especially  not  when  he,  Hugh  Massinger,  was  eager  and  keen 


294 


THIS  MOIiTAL   COIL. 


hi 


to  woo  and  wed  her.  "  The  crane,"  he  thonglit,  with  his  old 
knack  of  seeing  everything  through  a  haze  of  poetry — "  the 
crane  may  chatter  idly  of  the  crane,  The  dove  may  murmur  of 
the  dove,  but  I — An  eagle — clang  an  eagle  to  the  sphere." 
When  once  he  appeared  in  his  panoply  before  her  eyes  as  Elsie's 
suitor,  your  Warren  Kolfs  and  your  lesser  creatures  would  be 
forgotten  and  forsaken,  and  he  would  say  to  Elsie,  like  the 
Prince  to  Ida:  "  Lay  thy  bwect  bauds  i  i  miue  and  trust  to 
me." 

And  Elsie,  Elsie  herself  felt  it ;  felt  it  already— of  that  he 
was  certain.  Felt  this  Keif  creature  was  not  worthy  of  her; 
felt  she  must  answer  to  her  truer  instincts;  folt  her  old  love 
must  soon  return.  Eor  did  she  not  say  in  this  very  let.or, 
**  But  not  till  then.    And  that  may  be  never  "  ? 

That  maybe  never!  Oh,  precious  words!  She  was  leaving 
the  door  half-open,  then,  for  her  poet. 

Poet!  His  heart 'eaped  up  at  the  thought.  New  vistas— old 
visias  long  sirce  closed — opened  out  afresh  in  long  perspective 
before  him.  Ay,  with  such  a  fount  of  inspiration  as  that,  to 
what  heights  of  poetry  might  he  not  yet  attain !  What  peaks 
of  Parnassus  might  he  not  yet  scalo!  On  what  pinnacles  of 
glory  might  he  not  yet  poise  himself!  Elsie,  Elsie,  Elsie, 
p]lsie !  That  was  a  talisman  to  crush  all  opposition,  an  "  Open 
Sesame"  to  prise  all  doors.  With  Elsie's  love,  what  would  be 
impossible  to  him? 

Life  floated  in  new  colours  before  his  eager  eyes.  He  dreauicd 
dreams  and  saw  visions,  as  he  lay  on  his  bed  in  those  golden 
moments.  Earth  was  dearer,  fairer,  than  he  ever  deemed 
it.  The  fever  of  love  and  ambition  and  hate  was  upon  him 
now  in  full  force.  He  reeled  and  revelled  in  the  plenitude  of 
his  own  wild  and  hectic  imagination.  He  could  do  anything, 
everything,  anything.  He  could  move  mountains  in  his  fervent 
access  of  faith  ;  he  could  win  worlds  in  his  mad  delight ;  he 
could  fight  wild  beasts  in  his  sudden  glory  of  heroic  temper. 

And  all  the  while,  poor  dead  Winifred  lay  cold  and  white  in 
the  bedroom  below.  And  Klsie  was  off— off  to  E'-  ?land — with 
Warren  lielf— that  wretch !  that  serpent !  by  the  9.40. 


CHAPTER  XLIL 

FACE  TO   FACE. 

That  hint  sobered  him.  He  roused  himself  to  actual  action  at 
last.  It  was  now  eight,  and  Elsie  was  off  by  the  9.40!  Too 
many  thoughts  had  crowded  him  too  fast.    That  single  hour 


FACE  TO  FACE. 


295 


ot 
lie 


ilh 


|>n  at 
Too 
lOur 


encloEcd  for  Hugh  Mnssinper  a  whole  eternity  Enrth  hnd 
become  another  world  for  him  sinco  tlie  stroke  of  seven.  The 
sun  had  gone  back  upon  the  dial  of  his  life,  and  left  him  once 
more  at  the  same  point  where  he  had  stood  before  he  ever  mot 
"Winifred.  At  the  same  point,  but  oh,  how  diffircntly  circum- 
stanced I  He  had  gained  expcrionec  at  d  wisdom  sitico  then: 
he  had  learned  the  lessons  of  A  Life's  Philosophy.  All  was  not 
gold  that  glittered,  ho  knew  nowadnye.  The  life  was  more  than 
food,  the  body  than  raiment,  love  than  Whitestrand,  Elsie  than 
Winifred.  He  would  never  go  astray  after  the  root  of  all  evil, 
as  long  as  he  lived  and  loved,  again.  He  A/ould  be  the  Dcmas 
of  no  delusive  silver  mine.  On  his  voynge  of  discovery,  he  had 
found  out  his  own  soul — for  he  had  a  soul,  a  soul  capable  of 
appreciating  Elsie;  and  he  would  not  fling  it  away  a  second 
time  for  filthy  lucre,  common  dross,  the  deceitfulness  of  rich.'S, 
the  mammon  of  unrighteousness.  He  had  a  soul  capable  of 
appreciating  Elsie:  he  repeated  to  himself  with  ^he  minor 
poet's  intense  delight  in  the  ring  and  flow  of  his  own  verses, 
those  two  lines,  the  refrain  of  a  villanelfe  he  had  once— years  and 
years  ago — sent  her :  "  So  low  !  She  loves  me !  Can  I  be  sc 
low?  So  base!  I  love  her!  Can  I  be  so  base?"  He  loved 
Elsie.    And  Elsie  was  ofl:  by  the  9.40. 

There  was  the  key  to  the  immediate  future.  He  rose  and 
dressed  himself  with  all  expedition,  remembering — though  by 
an  afterthought — for  decency's  sake  to  put  on  his  black  cutaway 
coat  and  his  darkest  trousers — he  hud  with  him  none  black  save 
those  of  his  evening  suit— and  to  approach  as  near  to  a  mourning 
tie  as  the  narrow  resources  of  his  wardrobe  permitted.  But  it 
was  all  a  hollow,  holloAv  mockery,  *a  transparent  farce,  a  mer6 
outer  semblance :  his  coat  might  be  black,  but  his  heart  was 
blithe  as  a  lark's  on  a  bright  May  morning. 

He  drew  up  the  blind :  the  sun  was  flooding  the  bay  and  the 
hillsides  with  Italian  lavishness.  Flowers  were  gay  on  the 
paiterres  of  the  public  garden.  Who  could  pretend  to  be  sad 
at  soul  on  a  day  like  this,  worthy  of  whitest  chalk,  when  the 
Bun  shone  and  flowers  bloomed  and  Elsie  was  alive  af:ain? 
Let  the  dead  bury  their  dead.  For  him,  Elsie  1  for  Elsie  was 
alive  again. 

He  lived  once  more  a  fresh  life.  What  need  to  play  the 
hypocrite,  here,  alone,  in  his  own  hired  house,  in  the  privacy  of 
his  lonely  widowed  bedchamber  ?  He  smiled  to  himself  in  the 
narrow  looking-glass  fastened  against  the  wall.  He  laughed 
hilariously.  He  showed  his  even  white  teeth  in  his  joy :  they 
shone  like  pearl.  He  trimmed  his  beard  with  unwonted  care ; 
for  now  he  must  make  himself  worthy  of  Elsie.  "  If  I  be  dear 
to  some  one  else,"  he  murmured,  with  the  lover  in  Maud,  "  then 
I  should  be  to  myst;lf  more  dear."    And  that  he  was  dear  to 


i  i. 


u     ; 


I     ■■  '!: 


206 


THIS  MORTAL   COIL. 


Elsio,  ho  was  quite  ocriain.  Ilor  lovo  liad  Riiffcred  eclipse, 
no  iloiibt:  VViincn  licit",  like  a  uliadow,  had  flitted  for  a 
nioniciit  in  bctwoeii  them;  but  wlicii  once  he,  Hiifjh,  burst 
fortli  liko  the  sun  u])on  lier  eyes  orictj  more,  Wurron  Jielf,  paled 
and  iiKlfccluul,  Muuld  hide  hib  diiuiuiBLtd  head  and  vauiuli  mio 
Taciuicy. 

"  Wanen  Rclf!  That  reptile— that  vermin!  IIh,  ha!  I 
have  you  now  at  my  feet — my  hcol  on  your  neck,  you  sm  akin^^j 
traitor.  Hiding  my  Elsie  so  hmg  from  my  sight!  But  1  uick 
you  now,  on  tiie  eve  of  your  victory.  You  think  you  liavo  her 
site  in  the  hollow  of  your  hand.  You'll  carry  lier  otf  away  from 
mo  to  England!  Fool!  Idiot!  Jnihecilu!  Fatuous  1  You 
reckon  this  time  without  your  hostess.  Thoro's  many  a  slip 
'twixt  th(3  cup  and  the  lip.  I'll  dash  away  this  cup,  my  fine 
follow,  from  yours.  Y'our  lip  shall  never  touch  my  Elsie's. 
Nectar  is  for  gods,  and  not  for  mudlarks.  I'll  bring  you  down 
on  your  marrow-bones  before  me.  You  tried  to  outwit  me.  Two 
can  ])lay  at  that  gnmo,  my  friend." — He  seized  the  bolster  from 
the  bed,  and  Hinging  it  with  a  dash  on  the  carpetless  floor, 
trampled  it  in  an  access  of  frenzy  underfoot,  for  Warren  iu 
elfigy.  The  ri  lief  from  his  strain  had  come  too  quick.  He  was 
beside  himself  now  with  lovo  and  rage,  mad  with  excitement, 
drunk  with  hatred  and  joy  and  ji-alousy.  That  creature  marry 
his  Elsie,  forsoolh!  He  danctd  in  a  fever  of  prospective 
triumph  over  the  prostrate  body  of  hi.s  fallen  enemy. 

Warren  Eclf,  meanwhile,  by  hiniFelf  next  door,  was  saying  to 
himself,  PR  ho  dressed  anil  packed,  in  sober  sincerity:  "Poor 
Massinger!  \Muit  a  ten-ihlo  time  he  must  bo  having,  down 
there  alone  with  his  dead  Avife  and  his  accusing  C(mscience! 
Ought  I  to  go  down  and  lighten  his  burden  for  him,  I  wonder? 
Such  remorse  as  his  must  be  too  heavy  to  bear.  Ought  I  to  tell 
him  that  Elsie's  alive  V — that  that  death  at  least  doesn't  lie  at 
his  door? — that  he  has  only  to  answer  for  poor  Mrs.  Massinger  ? 
— No.  It  would  be  useless  for  me  to  tell  him.  He  hates  me  too 
much.  He  wouldn't  listen  to  me.  Elsio  shall  break  it  to  him 
in  her  own  good  tiir:e.  But  my  heart  aches  for  him,  for  all  that, 
in  sjiite  of  his  cruelty.  IJis  worst  enemy  could  wish  him  no 
liarm  now.  lie  must  be  suHeriiig  agonies  of  repret  and  repent- 
ance. Perhaps  at  such  a  monicut  he  might  accept  consolation 
even  from  me.  But  })robably  not.  1  wish 
to  lessen  this  misery  for  him." 

Why  did  no  answer  come  from  Elsie? 
surprised  Warren  not  a  little.  He  had  begged  her  to  let  him 
know  first  thing  in  the  morning  whether  she  could  get  away  by 
the  9.40.  He  wondered  Elsie  could  be  so  neglectful — she,  who 
was  generally  so  thoughtful  aucl  so  trustworthy.    Momeut  after 


I  could  do  anything 
That  puzzled  and 


FACE  TO  FACE. 


297 


momont  he  watched  and  waited:   a  letter  must  surely  come 
troiij  ]<]lsio. 


and 
him 
y  by 
who 
after 


After  1  while,  IInp;h*s  aceoss  of  mania — for  it  was  little  1(RR— 
cooled  down  somewhat.  He  be^an  to  face  the  position  like  a 
man.  Ho  must  becalm;  ho  must  be  saue;  ho  mu^t  deliberate 
sensibly. 

Elsie  was  goinpj  by  the  9.40;  nnd  Wnrrcn  Eelf  would  bo  there 
to  join  her.  "I'll  meet  you  at  tlio  stiitioii  at  the  hour  you  men- 
tion." But  not  unless  Eelf  received  that  lutter.  Should  he  over 
receive  it  ?    That  was  the  question. 

He  glanced  once  more  at  the  envelope— torn  hastily  open  : 
"  Wakhen  Help,  Esq.,  Villa  dc''a  Funtuiia  (I'luiio  IJ;."  Then 
Warren  Keif  was  here,  in  this  seiisamo  housu-ou  this  very  floor 
— next  door,  possibly  1  He  would  liko  to  go  in  and  wring  tho 
creature's  neck  for  him  1 — But  that  would  ho  rash,  unadvisable 
— premature,  at  any  rate.  Tho  wise  man  dissembles  his  hate  — 
for  a  while — till  occasion  offers,  fcjome  other  time.  With  butter 
means  and  more  premeditation. 

If  he  wrung  the  creature's  neck  now,  a  foolish  prejudice 
would  hang  him  for  it,  under  all  the  forms  and  pretences  of  law. 
And  that  would  be  inconvenient— tor  then  he  could  never  marry 
Elsie! 

How  inconsistent!  tliat  one  should  be  permitted  to  crush 
underfoot  a  li/ard  or  an  adder,  but  be  hanged,  by  a  wretched 
travesty  of  justice,  for  wringing  the  neck  of  tliat  noxious  vermin  1 
He  stamped  with  all  his  miglit  upon  tho  bolster  (vicio  Warren 
Belf,  not  then  producible)  and  gnashed  his  teeth  in  the  fury  of 
his  hatred.  "Some  day,  my  tine  fellow,  it'll  be  your  own  turn," 
he  muttered  to  himself,  "  to  get  rea  ly  danced  upon.  And  when 
your  turn  comes,  you  shall  find  no  mercy." 

Curses,  says  the  i)roverb,  come  home  to  roost. 

Again  ho  sobered  himself  with  a  violent  eifort.  It  was  hard 
to  be  calm  with  Elsie  alive,  and  Warren  I'elf,  as  yet  unchoked, 
separated  from  him  y  crliaps  by  no  more  than  a  thin  lath-and- 
plaster  partition.  But  tlie  circumstances  absolutely  demanded 
calmness.  He  would  restrain  himself;  he  wouhl  be  judicial. 
What  ought  he  to  do  in  re  this  letter  ?  Destroy  it  at  once,  or 
serve  it  upon  the  person  for  whom  it  was  iutuiided  ? 

Happy  thought!  If  he  let  things  take  their  own  course, 
Eelf  would  probably  never  go  down  to  tho  stati»»n  at  all,  wait- 
ing liko  a  fool  to  hear  from  Elsie;  and  then — why,  then,  ho 
might  go  himself  and — well— why  not? — run  away  with  her 
himself  offhand  to  England ! 

There,  novr,  would  be  a  dramatic  triumph  indeed  for  you ! 
At  the  very  moment  when  the  reptile  was  waiting  in  his  lair 
for  the  heroine,  to  snatch  her  by  one  bold  stroke  from  his  slimy 


U 


*!-.i  ,;, 


!,    U: 


298 


THIS  MORTAL   COIL. 


ill 

ili 

■t! 


grasp,  and  leave  him,  disconsolato,  to  Feek  her  in  vain  in  an 
empty  waiting-room  1  It  was  splendid  1 — it  was  magnificent  I 
The  humour  of  it  made  his  mouth  water. 

But  no!  The  scandal — the  gossip— the  indecency!  With 
Winifred  dead  in  the  room  below!  Ho  must  shield  Elsie  from 
80  grave  an  imputation.  He  must  bide  his  time.  He  must 
simulate  grief.  Un  must  let  a  proper  conventional  interval 
elapse.  Elsie  was  his,  and  he  must  guard  her  from  evil 
tongues  aud  eyes.  He  must  do  nothing  to  compromise 
Elsie. 

Still,  he  mifht  jnst  go  to  the  station  to  meet  her.  To  satisfy 
his  eyes.  No  harm  in  that.  Why  give  the  note  at  all  to  the 
reptile? 

Jiut  looking  at  it  impartially,  the  straight  road  is  always 
the  safest.  Tlie  proverb  is  right.  Honesty  appears  to  be  on 
the  whole  the  best  policy.  He  had  tried  the  crooked  path 
already,  and  found  it  wanting.  Lying  too  often  incurs 
failure.  Henceforth,  he  would  1>b— reasonably  and  moderately 
— honest. 

Excess  is  bad  in  any  direction.  The  wise  man  will  therefore 
avoid  excess,  be  it  either  on  the  side  of  vice  or  of  virtue.  A 
middle  course  of  external  decorum  will  be  found  by  average 
minds  the  most  prudent.  On  this,  0  British  ratepayer,  addrotis 
yourself! 

Hugh  took  from  his  portmanteau  an  envelope  and  his  writing- 
case.  With  Elsie's  torn  envelope  laid  before  him  for  a  model, 
he  exercised  yet  once  more  his  accustomed  skill  in  imitating 
to  the  letter — to  the  very  stroke,  cvCn — the  turns  and  twists  of 
that  sacred  handwriting.  But  oh,  with  what  different  feelings 
now !  No  longer  dead  Elsie's,  but  his  living  love's.  She  wrote 
it  herself,  that  very  morning.  Addressed  as  it  was  to  Warren 
Belf,  he  pressed  it  to  his  lips  in  a  fervour  of  delight,  and  kissed 
it  tenderly— for  was  it  not  Elsie's  ? 

His  beautiful,  pure,  noble- hearted  yjsfe!  To  write  to  that 
reptile !  And  "  Dearest  Warren,"  too !  What  madness  I  What 
desecration !    Pah  I    It  sickened  h'in. 

But  it  was  not  for  long.  Thb  sun  had  risen.  Before  its  rays 
the  lesser  Lucifers  would  soon  efface  tliemselvcs. 

He  rang  the  bell,  and  after  the  usual  aristocratic  Italian 
interval^  a  servant  presented  himself.  Your  Italian  never 
shows  a  vulgar  haste  in  answering  bells.  Hugh  handed  him 
the  letter,  roaddressed  to  Warren  in  a  forged  imitation  of 
Elsie's  handwriting,  and  asked  simply :  "  This  gentleman  is  in 
the  pensiofiy  is  he  ?  " 

Luigi  bowed  and  smiled  profusely.  "  On  the  same  floor ; 
next  door,  signor,"  he  answered,  indicating  the  room  with  a 
jerk  of  his  elbow.    The  Italian  waiter  lacks  polish.    Hugh 


rays 


of 
in 


FACE  TO  FACE. 


209 


noted  tho  posture  with  British  disapproval.  His  tastes  were 
lino:  he  disliked  laiuiliiirity. 

On  tho  samo  floor — as  yet  unchokcd !  And  lie  couldn't  get 
at  him.    Horrible  1  horrible  1 

Hugh  dared  not  stop  at  tho  pension  for  breakfast.  Ho  was 
afraid  of  ineiiting  Rolf  faee  to  face,* and  till  his  plan  was  earned 
into  execution— for  lie  bad  iiuleed  once  more  a  i)lan — ho  thought 
it  wisest  and  stiiest  for  the  present  to  avoid  him  studiously.  ]Io 
wanted  to  make  sure  with  his  own  two  (jjcs  that  Elsio  was  in 
very  truth  alive.  The  legal  side  of  him  craved  evidence.  When 
a  woman  has  been  dead,  undoubtedly  dead,  for  tlirce  long 
years,  only  ocular  demonstration  in  propria  /vrsoiid  can  fully 
convince  a  reasonable  man  she  is  quite  resuscitated.  Tho  age 
of  miracles  is  now  past :  the  age  of  scepticism  is  here  upon 
us.  Hugh  knew  too  well,  from  his  own  private  experience,  that 
documentary  evidence  may  be  but  a  fallible  guide  to  the  facta 
of  history.  Some  brute  might  jierhaps  have  meanly  stooped  to 
the  caddish  device  of  forgery  to  confound  him.  Ho  wouldn't 
liave  forged  for  such  a  purjjose  himself:  ho  would  use  that 
doubtful  weapon  in  self-defence  only.  Let  Keif  go  down  to  the 
statitm  by  all  means  :  he  would  loUow  after,  at  a  safo  distance, 
or  go  before,  if  thiit  seemed  better,  and  on  tho  unimpeachable 
authority  of  his  own  retina  and  his  own  discriminative  oi^tic 
nerves  make  perfectly  certain  he  saw  Elsio.  Unseen,  of  course; 
for  at  present  he  meaut  to  koip  quite  dark,  Elsie  perhaps 
would  hardly  like  to  know  he  had  stolen  away  at  buch  a 
moment — even  to  see  her — from  dead  Winifred. 

For  Elsie's  sake  he  must  assume  some  regret  for  dead 
Winificd. 

So  ho  told  tho  landlady  with  a  sigh  of  sensibility  he  had  no 
heart  that  morning  lo  taste  his  breakfast.  He  would  go  and 
stroll  by  tho  sea-shoro  alone.  Everything  had  been  arranged 
ahout  the  jioor  signora.  "What  grief?"  said  the  landlady. 
"  Look  you,  Luigi,  he  can  eat  nothing." 

At  a  shabby  trattoria  in  tho  main  street,  he  took  his  break- 
fast— a  sloppy  breakfast ;  but  the  cotfee  was  good,  with  tlie 
cxquisito  aroma  of  the  newly  roasted  berry,  and  the  fresh  fruit 
was  really  delicit)us.  On  the  Mediterranean  slope,  coftco  and 
fresh  f.'uit  cover  a  multitude  of  sins.  What  could  you  have 
nicer,  now,  tiuui  these  green  tigs,  so  daintily  purpled  on  the 
sunny  side,  and  the^JO  small  white  grapes  from  tho  local  vine- 
yards with  tiieir  faint  undertone  of  musky  flavour?  The  olives, 
too,  smack  of  the  basking  soil ;  "  the  luscious  glebe  of  vine-clad 
lands,"  he  had  called  it  himself  in  that  pretty  song  in  "  A  Life's 
Philosophy." — He  repeated  the  lines  for  his  own  pleasure,  rolling 
them  on  his  palate  with  vast  satisfaction,  as  a  connoiss..ur  rolls 
good  old  Madeira : 


II 


1 

I; 

1'    ^ 

II 

;     ! 

1 

.1     t    '■ 
;i    1 

H 

!'  ' 

1 

M 


m 


:u\ 


i 


800  T/77S  MOIiTAL  COfL, 

••  My  tliirsty  hosom  pnntfl  for  sunlif,  watf^rn, 
And  liiM'iiiiiH  ^\>'\h>  of  vine  clMd-limd  (, 
And  i'liMiiU'd  |isiiliiis  of  frcfdoiii'rt  hron/.o-chockcfl  daii;,'litcM, 
And  hiicieJ  griisp  of  brollitrly  Imnds." 

Tlmt  was  writtoii  Ixfoio  lio  know  WiiiilVod!  ITis  ppirits  wore 
IiIkIi.  JltJ  eiijoyod  his  liiviikrust.  A  (lUartcr  to  iiiuo  by  tho 
bij^  clmrch  cUn-.k  ;  jiiid  ELsio  fiocs  ut  9.U). 

JIo  Btrollcd  down  at  liis  leisiiro  to  tlio  htiilion  with  lii.s  Imnds 
in  his  pDckotH.  rici^th  air  and  KUiiKhiiiu  Riuilcd  at  his  liiitnoiir. 
Ho  would  liavo  liked  to  hido  liiniself  Hoipowlicro,  and  *' koo 
iiiiKCon,"  liko  Paris  with  tho  goddossos  in  tiio  dells  of  Ida;  but 
fiteru  fact  intervened,  in  tho  shape  of  tliat  rigid  continental  red- 
tajK)  railway  system  wliich  atbiiits  noliody  to  tho  waiting-rooms 
without  tho  jiassport  of  a  ticlvot.  Jle  must  buy  a  lieket  for 
form's  pako,  then,  and  go  a  littio  way  on  tho  same  lino  with 
them;  just  for  a  stalitni  (^r  two -say  to  Monto  Carlo. — IJo 
presented  himself  at  tlie  wickot  accordingly,  and  took  a  first 
bingle  as  far  as  tho  Casino. 

Jn  tho  waiting-room  ho  lurked  in  a  dark  corner,  boliind  Iho 
bookstall  with  tlio  ])a|);;r-C()verod  novels.  Klsio  and  Ilelf  would 
have  i)lenty  to  do,  lio  shrewdly  suspected,  in  looking  after  thiir 
own  iiig^ago  without  troubling  their  heads  al»out  casual 
strangers.  fcJo  ho  lurked  and  waited.  Tho  situation  was  a 
strange  one.  Would  KIsio  turn  up?  llis  heart  stood  still. 
After  so  n  any  years,  ai'tor  so  much  misery,  to  think  he  was 
waiting  ajiain  fur  i^jlsie  ! 

As  eaeli  new-comer  entered  tho  waiting-room,  his  pulso 
leaped  again  with  a  bur.st  of  oxijoetation.  The  time  wcait 
slowly:  [).iiO,  "J.oo,  D.oG,  'J. u7— would  Elsie  co'^ie  in  time  for  tho 

y.40? 
A  throb  1  a  jump! — alivo!  alive!    It  was  ELsie,  Elsie,  Elhio, 

Elsie ! 

She  never  turned ;  sho  never  saw.  She  walked  on  hastily, 
side  by  side  with  \v'arren,  tho  serpent,  tlio  repiile.  Hugh  let 
lier  pass  out  on  to  tho  platform  and  chooso  her  carriage.  His 
flood  of  oiiiotion  fairly  overpowered  hini.  Then  he  sneaked  out 
with  a  hangdog  air,  and  selected  another  compartment  for  him- 
self, a  long  Wiiy  behind  Elsie's.  iJut  when  once  ho  was  seated 
in  his  pl.ee,  at  his  ease,  he  let  his  pent-up  ii;(.lin}:s  have  free 
j)lay.  He  sat  in  his  corner,  ami  cried  for  joy.  The  tc.irs  followed 
one  anot!  cr  uncheckeu  down  his  ehci-ks.  Elsie  was  alive!  Ho 
had  seen  Eisie! 

The  tiain  rattled  on  upon  its  way  to  tho  frontier.  Eor- 
dighera,  Ventimiglia,  tho  lioya,  tho  ^^ervia,  were  .soon  i^asscd. 
'i'luy  entered  France  at  the  Pont  St.  Louis. 

Elsie  was  crying  in  her  carriage  too — crying  for  poor  tortured, 
heart-broken    V\  inifred.     And  not  without  certain  pangs  of 


AT  MONTE  CARLO. 


301 


ro^rot  for  IlnRli  aa  well.  Sho  lind  loved  liira  onco,  ami  lio  wiis 
hor  own  cousin.  "Oli,  Wiiircii,"  slio  cried,  for  tluy  hid  no 
otliofH  witli  tl.oin  in  ilieir  tlir()ujj;h-curriu;,'(5— it  was  the  Ka^o.n 
wlien  hardly  anybody  travols  northward — "  how  terribly  ho  mnst 
foci  it,  nil  alone  by  himself  in  a  siraiino  land,  with  that  poor 
dead  girl  that  ho  hounded  to  deat'h  for  his  only  company  1  I 
can't  bear  to  tliinlc  how  iniich  lie  must  bo  Bufloriuf;;.  Perhaps  at 
Marseilles  you'd  b(;tt<r  tolegraph  to  him  your  profound  Hympat!iy, 
and  tell  him  that  Winifro.l  said  bel'oro  tilie  died — said  earnestly 
hhe  loved  him  and  lorgavo  him." 

"I  will,"  Warren  answered.  "I  thought  of  hira  myself  not 
without  Komo  qualms  at  the  pchsion  this  morning.  Perhaps  at 
times,  for  your  sake,  knowing  what  you  suffered,  I've  been  too 
harsh  towards  him. — Elsie,  he's  a  very  heartless  man,  wo  both 
know ;  but  even  he  must  surely  feol  this  last  blow,  and  his  own 
guilt  for  it.  We've  never  spoken  of  him  togetlier  before ;  let's 
never  speak  of  him  together  a;j;ain.  This  word's  enough.  The 
telegram  ehall  bo  sent,  and  I  lioi)o  and  trust  it  ^/ill  save  him 
something  of  his  self-imposed  misery." 

And  all  the  time  Hugh  Massinger,  in  his  own  carriage,  was 
thinking— not  of  poor  dead  Winifred;  not  of  remorse,  or  regret, 
or  penitence  ;  not  of  his  sin  and  the  mischief  it  had  wrought — 
but  of  Klsio.  Tiio  bay  of  Mentono  smiled  lovely  to  his  eyes.  The 
crags  of  the  steep  seaward  scarp  on  the  Cap  Martin  side  glistened 
and  shone  in  the  mornirg  sunlight.  Tho  rock  of  iM omico  rose 
sheer  like  a  painter's  dream  from  the  sea  in  front  of  him.  And 
as  he  stepped  from  the  carriage  at  Monte  Carlo  station,  with  tho 
mountains  aliovo  and  the  gardens  below,  flooded  by  tho  rich 
Mediterranean  sunlight,  ho  looked  about  hira  at  the  scene  in 
pure  resthotic  delight,  saying  to  himself  in  his  throbbing  heart 
that  the  world  after  all  was  very  beautiful,  and  that  ho  might 
still  be  happy  at  last  with  Elsie. 


CHAPTER  XLIII. 


M 


AT  MONTE  CARLO. 

Hugh  had  not  had  tho  carriage  entirely  to  himself  all  the  way; 
a  stranger  got  in  with  him  at  Mentono  station.  But  so  absorbed 
was  Hugh  in  his  own  thoughts  that  ho  hardly  noticed  tho  new- 
comer's presence.  Full  of  Elsie  and  drunk  with  joy,  he  had 
utterly  forgotten  the  man's  very  existence  more  than  once. 
Crying  and  laughing  by  turns  as  he  went,  he  must  have  im- 
pressed the  stranger  almost  like  a  madman.  He  had  smiled 
and  frowned  and  chuckled  to  himself,  exactly  as  if  ho  had  been 
20 


1 


302 


THIS  MORTAL   COIL. 


n 


ir  ,\ 


quite  alone ;  and  though  he  saw  occasionally,  with  a  careless 
glee,  that  the  stranger  leaned  back  nervously  in  his  seat  and 
seemed  to  shrink  away  from  him,  as  if  in  bodily  fear,  he  scarcely 
troubled  his  head  at  all  about  so  insignificant  and  unimportant 
a  person.  His  soul  was  all  engrossed  with  Elsie.  What  was  a 
casual  foreigner  to  him,  with  Elsie,  Elsie,  Elsie,  recovered  ? 

The  Casino  gardens  were  already  filled  with  loungers  and 
children — gamblers'  children,  in  gay  Parisian  dresses— but  the 
gaming-rooms  themselves  were  not  yet  open.  Hugh,  who  had 
come  there  half  by  accident,  for  want  of  somewhere  better  to  go, 
and  who  meant  to  return  to  San  Remo  by  the  first  train,  strolled 
casually  without  any  thought  to  a  seat  on  the  terrace.  Pre- 
occupied  as  he  was,  the  loveliness  of  the  place  nevertheless  took 
him  fairly  by  surprise.  His  poet's  soul  lay  open  to  its  beauty. 
He  had  nevor  visited  Monte  Carlo  before ;  and  even  now  he  had 
merely  mentioned  the  name  at  random  as  the  first  that  occurred 
to  him  when  he  went  to  take  his  ticket  at  the  San  Remo 
booking-oflTice.  He  had  stumbled  upon  it  wholly  by  chance. 
But  he  was  glad  he  had  come ;  it  was  all  so  lovely.  The  smiling 
aspect  of  the  spot  took  his  breath  away  with  wonder.  And  the 
peaceful  air  of  all  that  blue  bay  soothed  somewhat  his  feverish 
excitement  at  the  momentous  discovery  that  Elde,  his  Elsie,  was 
still  living. 

He  gazed  around  him  with  serene  deliglit.  This  was  indeed 
a  day  of  joyful  surprises.  The  whole  place  looked  more  like  a 
scene  in  fairyland  in  full  pautorairao  time  than  like  a  prosaic 
bit  of  this  workaday  world  of  ours.  In  front  lay  the  cobalt- 
blue  Mediterranean,  broken  on  every  side  into  a  hundred  tiny 
sapphire  inlets.  Behind  him  in  serried  rank  rose  tier  after  tier 
of  Maritime  Alps,  their  solemn  summits  mysteriously  clouded 
in  a  fleecy  haze.  To. the  left,  on  tlie  white  rock  that  stretched 
upon  the  bay  as  some  vast  Miltonic  monster  suns  his 
length  on  the  broad  Atlantic, 

How  like  a  pern  the  sea-girt  city 
Of  little  Monaco  basking  glowed ! 

He  had  never  before  fully  understood  the  depth  and  beauty  of 
those  lines  of  Tennyson's :  he  repeated  them  over  now  musingly 
to  himself,  and  drank  in  their  truthfulness  with  a  poet's  appre- 
ciation. To  the  right,  the  green  Itab"  in  shore  faded  away  by 
degrees  into  the  purple  mountains  which  guard  like  sentinels 
the  open  mouth  of  the  Gulf  of  Genoa.  Lovely  by  nature,  that 
exquisite  spot — the  fairest,  perhaps,  in  all  Europe — has  been 
made  still  lovelier  by  all  the  resources  of  human  art.  From 
the  water's  edge,  terraces  of  luscious  tropical  vegetation  rise 
one  after  another  in  successive  steps  towards  tho  grand  fagado 
of  the  gleaming  Casino,  divided  from  one  another  by  parapets 


hugo 


AT  MONTH  CARLO. 


303 


huge 


of  marble  balnstrades,  and  connected  tc;:i;ether  from  place  to 
pince  by  broad  flights  of  Florentine  staircases.  Fantastic 
clusters  of  palms  and  aloes,  their  base  sirt  round  with  rare 
exotic  flowers,  tbrust  themselves  cunninp;iy  into  the  foreground 
of  every  beautiful  view,  so  that  the  visitor  looks  out  upon  the 
bay  and  the  mountains  through  artistic  vistas  deftly  arranged 
in  the  very  spot  where  a  Tuscan  painter's  exuberant  fancy 
would  have  wished  to  set  them  for  scenic  effect.  To  Warren 
Eelf,  to  be  sure,  Monte  Carlo  seemed  always  too  meretriciously 
obtrusive  to  deserve  his  ])6ucil ;  but  to  Hugh  Massinger's  more 
gorgeous  oriental  taste  it  revealed  itself  at  onre  in  brilliant 
colours  as  a  dream  of  beauty  and  a  glimpse  of  Paradise. 

From  the  bench  where  he  sat,  he  gazed  across  to  Monaco 
past  a  feathery  knot  of  drooping  date  branches :  he  caught  a 
glimpse  of  Bordighera  on  the  other  side  through  a  graceful 
framework  of  spreading  dracjeuas  and  quaint  symmetrical 
rosettes  of  fan-palms.  The  rock  itself  delighted  and  rejoiced 
his  poet's  soul :  his  fancy,  quickened  by  that  day's  adventures, 
saw  in  it  a  thousand  strange  similitudes.  Now  it  was  a  huge 
petrified  whale,  his  back  rising  two  hundred  feet  or  more  above 
tlie  water's  edge  :  and  now  it  was  some  gigantic  extinct  saurian, 
his  head  turned  toward  the  open  sea,  and  his  tail  just  lashincr 
the  last  swell  of  the  mainland  at  the  narrow  isthmus  where  it 
joined  the  mountains.  Perched  on  its  summit  stood  the  tiny 
town,  with  its  red-tiled  houses  and  clambering  streets,  and  the 
mediaeval  bastions  of  its  petty  Prince's  disproportioned  palace. 
Through  that  clear  Italian  air  ho  could  see  it  all  with  the 
utmost  distinctness — the  tall  gray  tower  with  its  Mauresque 
battlements,  the  long  white  fa(;ade  with  its  marble  pi i lavs,  the 
tiny  Place  d'Armes  with  its  rows  of  plane-irues,  its  dozen  brass 
cannon,  and  its  military  forces  engaged  that  moment  before  his 
very  eyes  in  duly  performing  their  autumn  manoeuvres.  For 
the  entire  strength  of  the  Monegasque  army  was  deploying  just 
then  before  his  languidly  attentive  vision :  anything  more  gro- 
tesque than  its  petty  evolutions  he  had  never  before  beheld — 
outside  an  opera  bouffe  of  OllFenbach's.  Twenty  fantastically 
dressed  soldiers,  of  various  sizes,  about  one-half  of  whom  were 
apparently  officers,  composed  the  entire  princely  service ;  and 
they  went  through  their  mock-drill  with  a  mixture  of  gravity 
and  casual  nonchalance  which  made  Hugh,  who  observed  them 
from  a  distance  through  his  pocket  field-glass,  smile  in  spite  of 
himself  at  the  ridiculous  ceremonial — it  recalled  so  absurdly 
the  "Grand  Duchess  of  Gerolstein,"  He  laughed  a  soft  little 
laugh  below  his  breath :  he  was  blithe  to-day,  for  Winifred  was 
dead,  and  he  had  seen  Elsie. 

Ho  looked  away  next  to  the  nearer  foreground.  The  dream- 
land of  Monte  Carlo  floated  in  morning  lights  before  his  en- 


304 


TEI8  MORTAL   COIL. 


chanted  eyes.  The  great  and  splendid  tnrreted  Casino,  the 
exquisite  green  lawns  and  gardens,  tlie  brilliant  rows  of  shops 
and  cates,  the  picturesque  villas  dotted  up  and  down  the  smooth 
and  English-looking  bward,  the  Italian  terraces  with  tlieir 
nuirhle  steps,  the  glorious  luxuriance  of  waving  palm-trees, 
massive  agaves,  thick  clustering  yucca  blossoms,  and  heavy 
breadths  of  tropical  foliage — all  alike  fired  and  delighted  his 
poetical  nature.  The  bright  blue  of  Mediterranean  seas,  the 
dazzling  white  of  Mediterranean  sunshine,  the  brilliant  russet 
of  Mediterranean  roofs,  soothed  and  charmed  his  too  exalted 
mood.  He  needed  repose,  beauty,  and  nature.  He  looked  at 
his  watch  and  consulted  the  little  local  time-table  he  had  bought 
at  San  Hemo. — After  all,  why  return  to  that  lonely  pension  and 
to  dead  Winifred  so  ver.v  soon  ?  It  was  better  to  be  here — here, 
where  all  was  bright  and  gay  and  lively.  He  might  sib  in  the 
gardens  all  day  long  and  return  by  the  last  train  to-uiglit  to 
Winifred.  No  need  to  report  himself  now  any  longer.  He  was 
free,  free ;  he  would  stop  at  Monte  Carlo, 

Why  leave,  indeed,  that  glorious  spot,  the  loveliest  and 
deadliest  siren  of  our  civilization?  He  felt  his  spirit  easier 
here,  with  those  great  gray  crags  frowning  down  upon  him 
from  above,  and  those  exquisite  bays  smiling  up  at  him  from 
below.  Nature  and  art  liu,d  here  combined  to  woo  and  charm 
him.  It  seemed  like  a  poet's  midsummer  dream,  crystallized 
into  lasting  and  solid  reality  by  some  gracious  wave  of  Titauia's 
wand. 

He  murmured  to  himself  those  lines  from  the  "  Daisy  "-— 

Nor  knew  we  well  what  pleased  us  most  5 
Not  the  dipt  palm  of  which  they  boast; 

l)iit  distant  colour,  happy  haailct, 
A  moulder'd  citadel  oa  the  coa:^t ; 

Or  tower,  or  high  hill-convent,  seen 
A  lifiht  amid  its  olives  green  ; 

Or  olive-hoar\'  cape  in  ocean  ; 
Or  rosy  blossom  in  hot  ravine. 

Exquisite  lines !  He  looked  across  to  Cap  Martin  and  under- 
stood them  all.  Then  his  own  verses  on  his  first  Italian  tour 
came  back  with  a  burst  of  similarity  to  his  memory.  In  his 
exultation  and  unnatural  excitement  ho  had  the  audacity  to 
compare  them  with  Tennyson's  own.  Why  mi'^'ht  not  he,  too, 
build  at  last  that  mansion  ho  had  talked  about  long,  long  ago, 
on  the  summit  of  Parnassus  ? 

I  found  it  not,  where  solemn  Alps  and  gray 
Draw  purple  glories  from  the  new-bora  day ; 

Nor  where  huge  sombre  ])iues  loom  overhanging 
Niagara's  rainbow  spray. 


AT  MONTE  CARLO.  305 

Nor  in  loud  psnims  w^hose  palpitatinjr  strain 
Thrills  the  vast  dome  of  Buonarotti's  fune : 

On  canvas  quick  with  Guide's  earnest  passion, 
Or  Titian's  statelier  vein. 

Tennyson  indeed!  Who  prales  about  Tennyson?  Were  not 
his  own  sonorous  ronnd-montlied  verses  worth  every  bit  as 
much  as  many  Tennysons?  He  repeated  ihem  over  lovingly 
to  himself.  The  familiar  rinj?  intoxicated  his  soul.  He  was  a 
poet  too.  He  would  yet  make  a  fortune,  for  himself  and  for 
Elsie  1 

Echoes,  echoes,  more  echoes  all  of  them!  But  to  Hugh 
Massinger,  in  his  parental  blindness,  quite  as  good  and  true  as 
their  inspired  originals.  So  the  minor  poet  for  over  deceives 
himself. 

Guido,  to  be  sure,  he  now  knew  to  be  feeble.  He'd  outlived 
Guido,  and  reached  Botticelli.  Not  that  the  one  preference 
was  any  profounder  or  truer  at  bottom  than  the  other;  but 
fashion  had  changed,  and  he  himself  had  changed  with  it.  He 
wrote  those  verses  long,  long  ago.  In  those  days  Guido  was 
not  yet  exploded.  He  wished  he  could  find  now  some  good 
dissyllabic  early  Italian  name  (with  the  accent  on  the  first)  that 
would  suit  modem  taste  and  take  tlie  place  in  the  verse  of  that 
too  tell-tale  Guido. 

For  Elsie  was  alive,  ond  he  must  be  a  poet  still.  He  must 
build  up  a  fortune  for  himself  and  for  Elsie. 

Somebody  touched  his  elbow  as  he  sat  there.  He  looked  up, 
not  without  some  parsing  tinge  of  annoyance.  What  a  bore  to 
be  discovered  1  He  didn't  want  to  be  disturbed  or  recognized 
just  then — at  Monte  Carlo— and  with  Winifred  lying  dead 'on 
her  bed  at  San  Eemo ! 

It  was  a  desultory  London  club  acquaintance — a  member  of 
the  Savage — and  with  him  was  the  man  who  had  come  with 
Hugh  in  the  train  from  IMentoiio. 

"  Hullo,  Massinger,"  the  desultory  Savage  observed  com- 
placently: "who'd  bavis  ever  thought  of  meeting  you  here. 
Down  in  the  South  for  the  winter,  or  on  a  visit?  Come  for 
pleasure,  or  is  your  wife  with  you  ?  W^hitestrand  too  much  for 
you  in  a  foggy  English  November,  eh  ?" 

Hugh  made  up  his  mind  at  once  to  his  course  of  action :  he 
would  say  not  a  single  word  about  Winifred.  "  On  a  visit,"  he 
answered,  with  some  slight  embarrassment.  "  I  expect  to  stop 
only  a  week  or  two."  As  a  matter  of  fact,  it  was  not  his  in- 
tention to  remain  very  long  after  Winifred's  funeral.  He  was 
in  haste,  as  things  stood,  to  return  to  England — and  Elsie. — 
*'I  came  over  with  your  friend  from  Mentone  this  morning, 
Lock." 


;5 
.i 


806 


THIS  MORTAL   COIL. 


f.% 


m 


;|  ■  ■■ 

-V 

'1  I.- 


"  And  he  took  you  for  a  maniac,  my  dear  boy,"  the  oth^r 
answered  with  a  quiet  smile.  "  I've  duly  explained  to  him  that 
you  are  not  mad,  most  noble  Massinser;  you're  only  a  poet. 
The  terms,  though  nearly,  are  not  quite  synonymous."  Then 
he  added  in  French :  "  Let  me  introduce  you  now  to  one 
another.  M.  le  Lieutenant  Fedor  Eaflfalevsky,  of  the  Russian 
navy." 

M.  Eaifalevslcy  bowed  politely.  "  I  fear.  Monsieur,"  ho  said, 
with  a  courtly  air,  "  I  caused  you  some  slight  surprise  and  dis- 
comfort by  my  peculiar  demeanour  in  the  train  this  morning. — 
To  tell  you  the  truth,  your  attitude  discomposed  me.  I  was 
coming  to  Monte  Carlo  to  join  in  the  play,  and  I  carried  no  less 
a  sum  for  the  purpose  than  three  hundred  thousand  francs  about 
my  body.  Not  knowing  I  had  to  deal  with  a  person  of  honour, 
I  felt  somewhat  nervous,  you  may  readily  conceive,  as  to  your 
muttered  remarks  and  apparent  abstraction.  Figure  to  yourself 
my  situation.  So  much  money  makes  one  naturally  fanciful! 
Monsieur,  I  trust,  will  have  the  goodness  to  forgive  me." 

"To  say  the  truth,"  Hugh  answered  frankly,  "  I  was  so  much 
absorbed  in  my  own  thoughts  that  I  scarcely  noticed  any  little 
hesitation  you  may  have  happened  to  express  in  your  looks  and 
manner.  Three  hundred  thousand  francs  is  no  doubt  a  very 
large  sum.  Wiiy,  it's  twelve  thousand  pounds  sterling — isn't  it. 
Lock? — You  mean  to  try  your  luck,  then,  en  gros,  Monsieur?" 

The  Russian  smiled.  "  For  once/'  he  answered,  nodding  his 
head  good-humouredly.  **I  have  a  system,  I  believe:  an  in- 
fallible system.  I'm  a  mathematician  myself  by  taste  and  habit. 
I've  invented  a  plan  for  tricking  fortune— the  only  safe  one  ever 
yet  discovered." 

Hugh  shook  his  head  almost  mechanically.  "All  system'* 
alike  are  equally  bad,"  he  replied  in  a  politely  careless  tone. 
Gambler  as  he  had  always  been  by  nature,  '.o  had  too  much 
common-sense  to  believe  in  martingales.  **  The  bank's  bound  to 
beat  you  in  the  long  run,  you  know.  It  has  the  deepest  purse^ 
and  must  win  in  the  end,  if  you  go  on  long  enough." 

The  Russian's  face  wore  a  calm  expression  of  superior  wisdonti. 
**  I  know  better,"  he  answered  quietly.  "  I've  worked  for  years 
at  the  doctrine  of  chances.  I've  calculated  the  odds  to  ten 
places  of  decimals.  If  I  hadn't,  do  you  think  I'd  risk  three 
hundred  thousand  francs  on  the  more  turn  of  a  wretched 
roulette  table?" 

The  doors  of  the  Casino  were  now  open,  and  players  were 
beginning  to  crowd  the  gambling  rooms.  "  Lot's  go  in  and 
watch  him,"  Lock  suggested  in  English.  "  There  can  be  no 
particular  harm  in  looking  on.  I'm  not  a  player  myself,  like 
you,  Massinger ;  but  I  want  to  see  whether  this  fellow  really 
Wins  or  loses.    He  believes  in  his  own  system  most  profoundly, 


AT  MONTE  CARLO. 


807 


were 
and 


I  ohserve.  lie's  a  very  nice  chap,  the  Pny master  of  the  Russian 
Mediterranean  squadron.  I  picked  him  up  at  the  Cercle 
Kautique  at  Nice  last  week;  and  he  and  I  have  been  going 
everywhere  in  my  yacht  ever  since  together." 

"All  right,"  Hugh  answered,  with  the  horrihle  new-horn  care- 
less gleo  of  his  recent  emancipation.  "  I  don't  mind  twopence 
what  I  do  to-day.  Vogue  la  galere !  I'm  game  for  anything, 
from  pitch-and-toss  to  manslaughter."  He  never  suspected 
himself  how  true  those  casual  words  of  the  stock  slang  ex- 
pression were  soon  to  become.  Pitch-and-toss  first,  and  after- 
wards manslaughter. 

They  strolled  round  together  to  the  front  of  the  Casino,  that 
stately  building  in  the  gaudiest  Hausmannized  Parisian  style, 
planted  plump  down  with  grotesque  incongruity  beneath  the 
lofty  crags  of  the  Maritime  Alps.    The  palace  of  sin  faces  a 
large  and  handsome  open  square,  with  greensward  and  fountains 
and  parterres  of  Cowers ;  and  all  around  stand  coquettish  shops, 
laid  temptingly  out  with  bonnets  and  jewelry  and  aesthetic  pro- 
ducts, for  people  who  win  largely  disburse  freely,  and  many 
ladies  hover  about  the  grounds,  with  fashionable  dresses  and 
shady  antecedents,  by  no  means  slow  to  share  the  good  fortune 
of  tlie  lucky  and  all  too  generous  hero  of  the  day.    Hugh 
mounted  the  entrance  staircase  with  the  rest  of  the  crowd,  and 
pushed  through  the  swinging  glass  doors  of  the  Casino.   Within, 
they  came  upon  the  large  and  spacious  vestibule,  its  roof  sup- 
ported by  solid  marble  and  porphyry  pillars.    Presentation  of 
their  cards  secured  them  the  right  of  entry  to  the  salles  de  j'eu, 
for  everything  is  free  at  Monte  Carlo — except  the  tables.    You 
may  go  in  and  out  of  the  rooms  as  you  please,  and  enjoy  for 
nothing— so  long  as  you  are  not  fool  enough  to  play — the  use  of 
two  hundred  European  newspapers,  and  the  music  of  a  theatre, 
where  a  splendid  band  discourses  hourly  to  all  comers  the  en- 
livening strains  of  Strauss  and  of  Gungl.    But  all  that  is  the 
merest  prelude.    The  play  itself,  which  forms  the  solid  core  of 
the  entire  entertainment,  takes  place  in  the  gambling  saloons 
on  the  left  of  the  Casino. 

Furnished  with  their  indispensable  little  ticket  of  introduc- 
tion, the  three  new-comers  entered  the  rooms,  and  took  their 
place  tentatively  by  one  of  the  tables.  The  Russian,  selecting 
a  .seat  at  once,  addressed  himself  to  the  task  like  one  well  accus- 
tomed to  systematic  gambling.  Hugli  and  his  acquaintance 
Lock  stood  idly  behind,  to  watch  the  outcome  of  his  infallible 
method. 

And  all  the  time,  alone  at  San  Remo,  Winifred's  body  lay  on 
the  solitary  bed  of  death,  attended  only  at  long  intervals  by  the 
waiting-women  and  landlady  of  the  shabby  pensio<i. 


Jj 


308 


THIS  MOPiTAL   COIL, 


to ! 


M 


L     5  '' 


CIIArTER  XLIV. 

"  LADIES  AND  GENTLEMEN,  MAKE  TOUR  GAME  !  '* 

Though  play  had  only  just  bej;un  when  Hugh  and  his  com- 
panions entered  the  saloon,  the  rooms  were  already  pretty  well 
crowded  with  regular  visitors,  who  came  early  to  secure  their 
accustomed  seats,  and  who  leant  forward',  with  big  rolls  of  gold 
piled  high  in  columns  on  the  table  before  them,  marking  down 
with  a  dot  on  their  tablets  the  winning  numbers,  and  staking 
their  twenty  or  thirty  napoleons  with  mechanical  calmness  on 
every  turn  of  that  fallacious  whirligig.  Hugh  had  often  heard 
or  read  sensational  descriptions  of  the  eagerness  depicted  upon 
every  face,  the  anxious  gaze,  the  rapt  attention,  the  obvious 
fascination  of  the  game  for  its  votaries;  but  wliat  struck  him 
rather  on  the  first  blush  of  it  all  was  tlie  exact  opposite :  the 
stolid  indiiference  with  which  men  and  women  alike,  inured  to 
the  varying  chances  of  the  board,  lost  or  won  a  couple  of  dozen 
pounds  or  so  on  each  jump  of  the  pea,  as  though  it  were  a 
matter  of  the  supremest  unconcern  to  them  in  their  capacity  of 
gamblers  whether  they  or  the  bank  happened  to  take  up  each 
particular  little  heap  of  money.  They  seemed,  indeed,  to  be 
mostly  rich  and  hJase  people,  suffering  from  a  chronic  plethora 
of  the  purse,  who  could  afford  to  throw  away  their  gold  like 
water,  and  who  threw  it  away  carelessly  out  of  pure  wantonness, 
for  the  sake  of  the  small  modicum  of  passing  excitement  yielded 
by  the  uncertainty  to  their  jaded  palates. 

One  player  in  particular  Hugh  watched  closely — an  austere- 
looking  man  with  the  air  and  carriage  of  a  rural  dean — to  detect 
if  possible  some  trace  of  emotion  in  his  eyes  or  muscles.  He 
could  observe  none ;  the  man's  features  were  rigid  aT  if  carved 
in  stone.  A  slight  twitching  of  the  fingers  from  time  to  time 
perhaps  faintly  betrayed  internal  excitement ;  but  that  was  all. 
The  clear-cut  face  and  thin  lips  moved  no  more  than  the  busts 
of  those  Elizabethan  Meyseys,  hewn  in  marble  or  carved  in 
wood,  in  the  cold  chancel  at  sand-swept  Whitest  rand. 

Nevertheless,  he  remarked  with  surprise  from  the  very  first 
moment  that  even  at  that  early  hour  of  the  morning,  when  tiie 
day's  work  had  hardly  yet  got  well  under  weigh,  the  rooms, 
though  large  and  lofty,  were  past  all  belief  hot  and  close,  doubt- 
less from  the  strange  number  of  feverish  human  hearts  and 
lungs,  all  throbbing  and  panting  their  suppressed  excitement, 
in  tliat  single  Casino,  and  warming  the  air  with  their  internal 
tires.    He  raised  his  eyes  and  glanced  for  a  moment  around  the 


in 

first 
the 

oms, 

ubt- 
and 

icnt, 
rnal 
the 


'* LADIES  AND  GENTLEMEN,  MAKE  YOUR  QAMEl"  309 

saloon.  It  was  spacious  and  hnndsome,  after  its  own  gandy 
fashion,  richly  decorated  in  the  Mauresque  style  of  the  Spanish 
Alhambi'a,  though  with  far  less  taste  and  harmony  of  colour 
than  in  the  restorations  to  which  his  eye  had  been  long  familiar- 
ized iti  London  and  Sydenham.  At  Monte  Carlo,  to  eay  the 
truth,  a  certain  subdued  tinge  of- vulgar  garishness  just  mars 
the  native  purity  of  the  style  into  perfect  accord  with  the 
nature  and  purposes  of  that  temple  of  Mammon  in  his  vilest 
avatar. 

Hugh,  however,  f(ir  his  part  had  no  scruples  in  the  matter  of 
gambling.  He  gazed  up  and  down  at  the  ten  or  twelve  roulette 
tables  that  crowded  the  salles  de  jeit,  with  the  utmost  com- 
placency. He  liked  play,  and  it  diverted  him  to  watch  it, 
especially  when  the  man  he  meant  to  observe  was  the  pro- 
pounder  of  a  new  and  infallible  sj.stem.  Infallible  systems  are 
always  interesting :  they  collapse  with  a  crash— amusing  to 
everybody  except  their  propounder.  He  bent  his  eyes  closely 
upon  the  hands  of  the  Ilussian,  who  had  now  pulled  out  his  roll 
of  gold  and  silver,  and  was  eagerly  beginning  to  back  his  chosen 
numbers,  doubtless  with  the  blind  and  stupid  couiidence  of  the 
infatuated  system-monger. 

Eaflfrtlevsky,  however,  played  a  cautious  openingr.  He  started 
modestly  with  four  five-franc  pieces,  distributed  about  on  a 
distinct  plan,  and  each  of  them  staked  on  a  separate  number. 
The  five-franc  piece,  in  fact,  is  the  minimum  coin  permitted  to 
show  its  face  on  those  aristocratic  tables ;  and  six  thousand  francs 
is  the  maximum  sum  which  the  bank  allows  any  one  player  to 
hazard  on  a  single  twist  of  the  roulette :  between  these  extreme 
limits,  all  possible  systems  must  needs  confine  themselves,  so 
that  the  common  martingale  of  doubling  the  stakes  at  each 
unsuccessful  throw  becomes  here  practically  impossible.  Eaffa- 
levsky's  play  had  been  carefully  calculated.  Hugh,  who  was 
already  well  versed  in  the  mysteries  of  roulette,  could  see  at  a 
glance  that  the  Eussian  had  really  a  method  in  his  madness. 
Ho  was  working  on  strict  mathematical  principles.  Sometimes 
he  divided  or  decreased  his  stake;  sometimes,  at  a  bound,  he 
trebled  or  quadrupled  it.  Sometimes  he  plunged  on  a  single 
numlier ;  sometimes  for  several  turns  together  he  steadily 
backed  either  red  or  black,  pair  or  impair.  But  on  the  whole, 
by  hap  or  cunning,  he  really  seemed  to  be  winning  rapidly.  His 
sustained  success  made  Hugh  more  anxious  than  ever  to  watch 
his  play.  It  was  clear  he  had  invented  a  genuine  system. 
Might  it  be  after  all,  as  he  said,  an  infallible  one? 

If  only  Hugh  could  find  it  out!  He  must,  he  would  marry 
Elsie.  How  grand  to  marry  her,  a  rich  man  1  He  would  love 
to  lay  at  Elsie's  feet  a  fortune  worthy  of  his  beautiful  Elsie. 

Things  v;ere  nil  changed  now.    He  had  something  to  live,  to 


ill 


PIO 


THIS  MORTAL  COIL. 


in 


work,  to  Rnmble  for !  If  only  he  could  say  to  his  recovered 
Elsie :  *'  Tnko  mo,  rich,  famous,  groat— take  me,  and  "White- 
strand,  no  longer  sand-swept.  I  lay  it  all  in  your  lap  for  your 
gracious  acceptance — these  piles  of  gold— these  heaps  of  coins !  '* 
But  he  had  nothing,  nothing,  save  the  few  napoleons  he  carried 
about  him.  If  he  had  but  the  llussian's  twelve  thousand 
pounds  -iow !  he  would  play  and  win—win  a  forUuic  at,  a  stroke 
for  his  darling  Elsie. 

Fired  with  the  thought,  hy  watohel  Eaffiilevskv  more  clopely 
than  ever.  In  time,  ho  began  to  perceive  by  degrees 4ipon  what 
principle  the  money  was  so  regularly  lost  and  won.  It  was  a  good 
principle,  mathematically  correct.  II  ugh  worked  it  out  hastily  on 
the  back  of  an  envelope.  Yes,  in  one  hundred  and  twenty  chances 
out  of  one  hundred  and  thirty  seven,  a  man  ought  to  win  ten  louis 
a  turn,  against  seven  lost,  on  an  average  reckoning.  At  last, 
Eaffalevsky,  after  several  good  hazards,  laid  down  five  louis 
boldly  upon  24.  Hugh  touched  his  shoulder  with  a  gentle  hand. 
"  Wrong,"  he  murmured  in  French.  "  You  make  a  mistake 
there.  You  abandon  )  our  principle.  You  ought  to  have  backed 
27  this  time." 

The  Russian  looked  back  at  him  with  an  angry  smile;  eo 
slight  a  scratch  at  once  brought  out  the  Tartar.  "  Back  it  your- 
self, then.  Monsieur,"  he  said  sullenly.  "  I  make  my  own  game. 
— Pray,  don't  interrupt  me.  If  your  calculations  go  so  very 
deep,  put  your  own  money  down,  and  try  your  luck  against  me. 
My  principles,  when  I  tirst  discovered  them,  were  not  worked 
out  on  the  back  of  an  envelope." 

The  gibe  oflfeuded  Hugh.  In  a  second  he  saw  that  the  fellow  was 
wrong :  he  was  misinterpreting  the  nature  of  his  own  discovery. 
He  had  neglected  one  obvious  element  of  the  problem.  The 
error  was  mathematical :  Hugh  snapped  at  it  mentally  with  his 
keen  perception — he  had  taken  a  first  in  mathematics  at  Oxford 
— and  noted  at  once  that  if  the  Russian  pursued  his  present 
course  for  many  turns  together  he  was  certain  before  long  to  go 
under  hopelessly,  '/or  the  space  of  one  deop  breath  he  hesitated 
and  held  back.  What  was  the  use  of  gambling  with  no  capital 
to  go  upon  ?  Then,  more  for  the  sake  of  proving  himself  right 
tlian  of  winning  money,  he  dived  into  his  pocket  with  a  sudden 
resolution,  and  drawing  forth  five  napoletms  from  his  scanty 
purse,  laid  them  without  a  word  on  27,  and  awaited  patiently 
the  result  of  his  action. 

"  The  game  is  made,"  the  croupier  called  out  as  Hugh  with- 
drew his  hand.  After  that  warning  signal,  no  stakes  can  bo 
further  received  or  altered.  Whir-r-r  went  the  roulette.  The 
pea  span  round  with  whizzing  speed.  Hugh  looked  on,  all 
enger,  in  a  fever  of  suspense.  He  half  regretted  he  had  backed 
27.    He  was  sure  to  lose.    The  chances,  after  all,  were  so  enor- 


with- 
an  bo 
The 
n,  all 
eked 
enor- 


"  LADIES  AND  QKN'/LEMEN, MAKE  YOUR  GAMEl"  311 

mous  against  him.  Thirty-six  to  one!  If  you  win,  it's  a  fluke. 
What  a  fool  he  had  hoen  to  run  the  risk  of  making  himself  look 
small  in  this  gratuitous  way  before  the  cold  eyes  of  that  unfeel- 
ing Russian ! 

Ho  knew  he  was  righ^,  of  course:  27  was  the  system.  But  a 
sensible  system  never  hangs  upon  a  sinulo  throw.  It  depends 
upon  a  long  calculaMon  of  chances.  You  must  let  one  risk 
balance  another.  Eaflfalevsky  had  twelve  thousand  pounds  to 
lall  back  upon.  If  he  failed  once,  to  him  that  didn't  matter  :  he 
could  go  on  still  and  recoup  himself  in  the  end  by  means  of  the 
system.  Only  under  such  circumstances  of  a  full  purse  can  any 
method  of  gambling  ever  by  any  possibility  be  worth  anything. 
Broken  reeds  at  the  best,  even  for  a  Rothschild,  they  must 
almost  necessarily  pierce  the  hand  that  leans  upon  them  if  it 
ventures  to  try  thoui  on  a  petty  scrap  of  pocket  capital.  And 
Hugii's  capital  was  grotesquely  scrappy  for  duch  a  largo  venture 
— he  had  only  some  seventy-five  pounds  about  him. 

How  swift  is  thought,  and  how  long  a  time  it  sccmod  before 
the  pea  jumped !  Ho  had  reasoned  out  all  this,  and  a  thou.^and- 
fold  more,  in  his  own  mind  with  lightning  speed  while  that 
foolish  wheel  was  still  whirling  and  spinning.  If  he  won  at  all, 
it  could  only  bo  by  a  raro  stioke  of  tickle  fortune.  Thirty-six 
to  one  were  the  odds  against  him !  And  if  he  lost,  he  must 
either  leave  off  at  once,  or  else,  in  accordance  with  the  terms  of 
the  system,  slake  ten  louis  next  turn  on  14,  or  nine  louis  on  odd 
or  even.  At  that  rate,  his  poor  little  capital  would  soon  be 
exhausted.  How  he  longed  for  Raffalevsky's  twelve  thousand 
to  draw  upon  1  Ho  would  feel  so  small  if  27  lost.  And  if  there 
was  anything  on  earth  that  Hugh  Massinger  hated  it  was  feeling, 
small :  the  sense  of  ignominy,  and  its  opposite  the  feeling  of 
personal  dignity,  wore  deeply  rooLed  iu  tlio  very  base  and  core 
of  his  selfish  nature. 

At  last  the  pea  jumpeJ.  A  breathless  second !  The  croupier 
looked  over  at  it  and  watched  its  fall.  "  Vingt-sept,"  he  cried 
in  his  stcreotypetl  tone.  Hugh's  heart  leapt  up  with  a  sudden 
wild  bound.  The  fever  of  play  had  seized  on  him  now.  He 
had  won  at  a  stroke— a  hundred  and  seventy-five  louis. 

Here  w'as  a  capital  indeed  upon  which  to  begin.  He  would 
back  his  own  system  with  this  against  Raffalevsky's.  Or  rather, 
he  would  back  Raffalevsky's  discovery,  as  rightly  apprehended 
and  worked  out  by  Jiimseli,  against  Raffalevsky's  discovery  as 
wrongly  applied  and  distorted  through  au  essential  error  of 
detail  by  its  original  inventor. 

It  was  system  pitted  against  system  nov7.  The  croupier 
raked  in  the  scattered  gold  heaped  on  the  various  cabalistic 
numbers,  squares,  and  diamonds — and  amongst  them,  Raffa- 
levsky's five  napoleons  upon  24.    Then  he  paid  the  lucky 


I 

'  I  fl 


I   i 


312 


THIS  MORTAL   COIL. 


players  thoir  gains ;  counting  out  three  thonsand  five  hundred 
francs  with  practised  case,  and  handing  them  to  Hugh,  who  was 
one  among  the  principal  winners  by  that  particular  turn.  In 
two  minutes  more,  the  board  was  cleared ;  the  wooden  cue  had 
hauled  in  all  the  bank's  receipts;  the  fortunate  players  had 
added  their  winnings  to  the  heap  before  them;  and  nil  was 
ready  for  a  further  venture.  "  Messieurs  et  mesMlames,  faites  lo 
jeu,"  the  harsh  voice  of  the  croupier  cried  mechanically.  The 
players  laid  down  their  stakes  once  more ;  the  croupier 
waited  the  accustomed  interval.  "  Le  jeu  est  fait,  rien  ne  va 
plus,"  he  cried  at  last;  and  the  pea  again  went  buzzing  and 
whizzing.  Hugh  was  backing  his  system  this  time  on  the 
regular  rule:  three  louis  on  the  left-liand  row  of  numbers. 

Ho  lost.  That  was  but  a  small  matter,  of  course.  He  had 
won  to  begin  with ;  and  a  stroke  of  luck  at  the  tirst  outset  is 
responsible  for  the  greater  part  of  the  most  reckless  playing. 
Time  after  time  he  staked  and  played — staked  and  played— 
staked  and  played  again,  sometimes  losing,  sometimes  winning; 
but  on  the  whole,  the  system,  as  he  had  anticipated,  proved 
fairly  trustworthy.  The  delirium  of  play  had  taken  full  pos- 
session of  him,  body  and  soul,  by  this  time.  He  was  piling 
lip  gold ;  piling  it  fiist;  how  fast,  he  never  stopped  to  think  or 
count :  enough  for  liim  that  the  system  won ;  as  long  as  it  won, 
what  waste  of  time  at  a  critical  moment  to  stop  and  reckon  the 
extent  of  his  fortune. 

Ho  only  knew  that  every  now  and  then  he  thrust  a  fresh 
handful  of  goldo"  notes  into  his  pocket — for  Elsie — and  went  on 
playing  with  feverish  eagerness  with  the  residue  of  his  winnings 
left  upon  the  table. 

By  two  o'clock,  however,  he  began  to  get  hungry.  This  sort 
of  excitement  takes  it  rapidly  out  of  a  man.  Lock  had  dis- 
appeared from  the  scene  long  since.  He  wanted  somebody  to  go 
and  feed  with.  So  he  leaned  over  and  whispered  casually  to 
Raffalevsky :  **  Shall  we  turn  out  now  and  take  a  mouthful  or 
two  of  lunch  together?  '* 

EaflFalevsky  looked  back  at  him  with  a  pale  face.  "  As  you 
will,"  he  said  wearily.  "I'm  tired  of  this  play.  Losses,  losses 
nil  along  the  line.  The  system  breaks  down  here  and  there,  I 
find,  in  actual  practice." 

So  Hugh  had  observed  with  a  placid  smile  for  the  last  hour  or 
two. 

They  left  tlio  tables,  and  strolled  across  the  square  to  the 
stately  portals  of  the  Hotel  de  Paris.  Hugh  was  in  excellent 
spirits  indeed.  "  Permit  me  to  constitute  myself  the  host, 
Monsieur,"  he  said  with  his  courtliest  air  to  Eatfalevsky.  He 
had  won  heavily  now,  and  was  in  a  humour  on  all  grounds  to 
spend  his  winnings  with  princely  magnificence. 


'*■ 


''LADIES  AND  GENTLEMEN,  MAKE  YOUR  O^J/A'/"  313 


The  Russinn  bowed.  "  You  are  very  kiiul,  monsionr,"  lio 
nnsworcd  with  a  sniilo.  Then  he  added,  Imlf  a})()l()p:oticalIy,  at 
the  end  of  a  pause  :  "  And  at'tor  all,  it  was  my  own  systom." 

The  carte  was  tempting,  and  money  was  clioiip— cheai)cr  than 
in  London.  Hugh  ordered  the  most  sumptuous  and  reclierche  of 
luncheons,  with  wine  to  match,  on  a  millionairo  scale,  and  they 
sat  down  together  at  the  luxurious  tables  of  that  lordly  restau- 
rant. While  they  waited  for  their  red  mullet,  Hugh  pulled  out 
a  stray  handful  of  notes  and  gold  and  began  to  count  up  the 
extent  of  his  winnings.  He  trembled  himself  when  he  saw  to 
how  very  large  a  sum  the  total  amounted.  Ho  had  pocketed  no 
leps  in  that  siiort  time  than  fourteen  huudred  louis  I  Fools  that 
plod  and  toil  and  moil  in  Loudon  for  a  long,  long  year  upon 
half  that  pittance !  How  he  pitied  and  despised  them !  In 
three  brief  hours,  by  the  aid  of  a  system,  he  had  wou  oft'iiand 
fourteen  hundred  louis! 

Ho  mentioned  the  sum  of  his  winnings  with  bated  breath  to 
the  unsympathetio  Russian.  Ilaffalevsky  bit  his  lip  with  undis- 
guised jealousy.  **  And  I,"  he  said  curtly,  in  a  cold  voice, 
*'  have  dropped  sixteen  hundred." 

It's  wonderful  with  what  placid  depths  of  heroism  the 
winners  can  endure  the  losses  of  the  losers.  "  Never  mind,  my 
friend,"  Hugh  ans\\crcd  back  cheerily.  "  Fortune  always  takes 
a  turn  in  the  long  run.  Her  wheel  will  alter.  You'll  win  soon. 
And  besides,  you  know,  you  have  an  infallible  system." 

"  It's  the  cursed  system  that  seems  to  have  betrayed  me,"  the 
Russian  blurted  back  with  a  savage  outburst  of  unchecked 
temper.  "It  worked  out  so  well  on  paper,  soniehow;  but  on 
these  precious  tables,  with  their  turns  and  their  evolutiojis, ' 
something  unexpected  is  always  bobbing  up  to  spoil  and  prevent 
my  legitimate  triumph.  Would  you  believe  it,  now,  Uust  turn 
but  one,  and  the  turn  before  it,  I  had  calculated  seven  hundred 
and  twenty-two  distinct  chances  all  in  my  favour  to  a  miserable 
solitary  one  against  me :  and  not  one  of  the  seven  hundred  and 
twenty-two  go(;d  combinations  ever  turned  up  at  all,  but  just 
the  one  btasLly  unlucky  conjunction  that  made  against  me  and 
ruined  my  speculations.  You  might  play  for  seven  hundred 
and  twenty-two  turns  on  an  average  again  without  that  ever 
happening  a  second  time  to  confound  you." 

At  the  table  behind  them,  a  philosophically  minded  French- 
man of  the  doctrinaire  type — a  close-shaven  old  gentleman  with 
an  official  face,  white  hair,  and  an  unimpeachable  necktie — was 
discourfcing  aloud  to  a  friend  beside  him  of  the  folly  of  gam- 
bling. *'  I'm  not  going  to  moralize,"  ho  remarke  1  aloud,  in  that 
very  clear  and  audible  tone  which  the  doctrinaire  Frenchmen 
generally  adopts  when  he  desires  to  air  his  own  private 
opinions;  *'  for  Monte  Carlo's  hatdly  the  place,  let  us  admit,  for 


i     \ 


W  < 


1  • 


314 


THIS  MORTAL   COIL. 


!l 


m 


m. 


a  dolibora^o  conforonco.  But  on  tho  wholo,  viewed  mcrnly  ns 
bottiiif?,  it's  a  peculiarly  l)a(l  way  of  risking  your  money. 
Iraafj;ine,  for  example,  that  you  want  to  gamble;  there  arc 
many  otlior  much  better  and  fairer  methods  of  gambling  than 
tlii".  Figure  to  yourself,  tirst,  that  you  and  I  play  ronne  et  noir 
by  a  tnrn  of  the  oardH  at  a  louis  u  cut :  e.h  him,  wo  stand  to  lose 
or  win  on  an  absolute  ociuality  one  with  the  other.  That  is 
just,  so.  We  back  our  luck  at  no  special  disadvantage.  But 
figure  to  yourself,  on  the  contrary,  that  wu  play  against  a  bank 
wh.ch  gives  itself  one  extra  chance  in  its  own  favour  out  of 
evtry  thirty-seven,  and,  understand  well,  we  are  backing  our 
luck  against  unequal  odds,  so  that  in  the  long  run  the  bank 
must  win  from  us.  You  have  only  to  play  so  many  times  running 
on  an  average  in  order  to  contribute  with  almost  unerring  cer- 
tfiinty  one  nai)oleon  towards  tho  private  income  of  tho  Prince  of 
Monaco.  For  me,  I  do  not  care  for  his  Serenity:  I  prefer  to 
f>pcnd  my  nap()le(m  on  a  good  dinner,  and  to  let  the  fools  who 
frequ(  lit  the  Casino  keep  up  the  music  and  the  gardens  and  the 
theatre  for  my  private  nmnscmeDt." 

From  his  seat  in  front,  Huglj  thoroughly  dospised  that  close- 
shaven  Frenchman  to  tlie  bottom  of  his  soul.  Mean  wretch, 
who  could  thus  coldly  calculate  the  chances  of  loss,  when  he 
himself  had  just  won  at  one  glorious  sitting  fourteen  hundred 
golden  louis !  He  turned  round  in  his  chair,  flushed  red  with 
success,  and  flung  the  fact,  as  it  were,  full  in  front  of  the 
Frenchman's  dintrliiaire  folding  eye-glasses. 

The  philosopher  smiled.  "Monsieur,"  he  answered  with 
perfect  good-humour,  and  an  olive  poised  on  tiio  tip  of  his  fork, 
**  you  are  one  of  the  few  whose  special  good  fortune,  occasion- 
ally realized,  alone  attracts  the  thousands  of  unfortunate 
pigeons.  Every  now  and  then,  in  ctfect,  one  hears  at  Monte 
Carlo  of  people  who  at  a  few  strokes  of  the  wheel  have  won  for 
themselves  prodigious  fortunes.  But  then,  one  must  remember 
that  the  chances  are  always  rather  against  ycm  than  for  you, 
and  above  all  that  the  longest  purse  has  always  the  advantage 
A  few  people  win  very  large  sums;  a  few  more  win  moderate 
sums;  a  good  many  wiv.  a  little;  and  by  far  the  most  part — 
say  two  out  of  three— lose,  and  often  lose  heavily.  Voila  tout ! 
We  have  there  the  Iliad  of  gambling  in  a  nutsliell.  You  have 
been  lucky  enough  yourself  to  win;  tliat  is  well. — And  Mon- 
sieur your  friend  there — pray,  what  has  he  done  also?" 

"Lost  sixteen  hundred,"  the  Kussiuu  burst  out  with  a  sulky 
nod. 

The  close-shaven  gentleman  smiled  pleasantly.  "  So  the  bank 
gains  two  hundred  on  the  pair,  it  seems,"  he  murmured  «vith  a 
faint  shrug. — ^" Thank  you,  Monsieur:  you  prove  my  point.  If 
ever  I  should  be  seized  with  a  desire  for  gambling,  which 


PACTOLUS  INDEED! 


316 


Iloaven  forbid,  I  shall  pamblo  where  the  chanoos  that  mnko  for 
no  nro  at  least  an  p;oo(l  as  the  chnncoH  that  toll  against  mo. 
1  flis'iko  a  pamo  whore  I  vinat  lose  if  1  kcn|)  on  lonjr  enout^h.  I 
h  ve  no  clcsiro  to  increafio  the  rcvouues  of  that  uujiab.o  crowned 
liead,  the  Princo  of  Monaco." 

Hugh's  contemjjt  for  that  man  knew  ro  bounds.  A  mere 
wretched  purblind  political  economist,  no  doubt,  reasoning  and 
calculating  on  a  matter  like  that,  when  he,  Hugh,  with  his  suc- 
cessful boldness,  had  a  thousand  pounds  neatly  tucked  away  in 
gold  and  notes  in  his  own  trousers  pockets  I  Thus  do  fools  fling 
away  fortune!  He  laughed  to  scorn  those  London  lawyers  ana 
money-lenders.  Hero  was  the  true  Eldorado  indeed :  here  a 
genuine  Pactolus  flowed  full  and  free  through  a  Tom  Tiddler's 
ground  of  unimaginable  wealth,  unchecked  in  its  course  by 
seven  per  cent,  or  by  mean  barriers  of  collateral  becurity.  Ho 
would  soon  be  rich— rich,  rich,  for  Elsie. 


:jt 


m 


tout! 
have 

jNxOU- 

sulky 


CHAPTETl  XLV. 

PACTi)LTJS   INDEED  I 

Aftew  a  Rumptuous  lunch,  they  returned  to  tho  rooms.  To 
the  rooms! — say  rather  to  the  treasure-house  of  Croesus!  On 
the  steps,  they  passed  a  young  English  lad,  who  looked  barely 
twenty.  "Don't  tell  mamma  I  played,"  he  was  saying  to  a 
companion  ruefully  as  they  passed  him.  *'  She'd  break  h&r 
heart  over  it,  if  slie  ever  know  it."  But  Hugh  had  no  time 
to  notice  in  passing  the  pathos  of  tho  remark.  Who  could 
bother  his  head  about  trifles  like  that,  forsooth,  when  he's 
coining  his  hundreds  on  the  turn  of  a  roulette  table  ? 

He  meant  to  win  hundreds— thousands— now.  He  meant  to 
build  up  a  colossal  fortune— for  Elsie,  for  Elsie. 

These  years  had  taught  him  a  certain  sort  of  selfish  unselfisli- 
ness.  It  was  no  longer  for  his  own  use  that  he  wanted  money ; 
he  longed  to  lay  it  all  down  at  Elsie'si  ftic.  She  was  his  Queen : 
he  would  do  her  homage. 

The  tables  had  tilled  up  three  files  deep  with  players  by  this 
time.  Hugh  had  hard  work  to  edge  his  way  dexterously  in 
between  them :  the  liussian  followed  with  equal  difficulty. 
But  a  croupier,  recognizing  them,  motioned  both  with  a  cour- 
teous wave  of  his  hand  to  two  vacant  chairs  he  had  kept  on 
purpose.  Men  who  win— or  lose— large  suras  command  respect 
instinctively  at  Monte  Carlo.  Hugh  and  the  Kussian  had  each 
qualified,  on  one  or  other  of  these  opposite  grounds,  for  a  seat  at 
tho  table.    Hugh's  turn  by  the  system,  hovfcver,  had  not  yet 


316 


THIS  MORTAL   COIL. 


come  on :  he  liad  to  wait,  according  to  his  self-imposed  law,  till 
one  of  the  four  middle  numbers  should  happen  to  turn  up 
before  he  again  began  stakirg.  So  he  gazed  around  with  placid 
interest  for  some  minutes  at  his  crowded  fellow-playei-s.  Success 
exciters  some  nervous  heads;  it  always  made  Hugh  Massinger 
placid.  There  they  sat  and  stood,  not  less,  he  thought,  than  five 
hundred  busy  men  and  women,  lifiy  or  sixty  jostling  one  another 
round  each  separate  board,  playing  away  as  if  for  dear  life,  and 
risking  fortunes  giddily  on  the  jump  of  a  pea  in  that  meaningless 
little  whirligig  of  a  spinning  roulette  wheel.  She  was  a  German, 
he  conjectured,  that  fiat-faced  impassive  lady  opposite,  gambling 
cautiously  but  very  high,  and  laden  on  her  neck  and  arms  and 
ears  with  an  atrocious  dead- weight  of  vulgarly  exjpensive  jewelry. 
Then  the  bold  but  handsome  young  girl  at  her  side,  with  the  ex- 
quisite bonncjt  and  well-cut  mantle,and  the  remarkably  full-blown 
Pennsylvanian  twang,  must  surely  by  her  voice  be  an  American 
citizen.  By  her  voice  and  by  her  play ;  for  she  risked  her  broad 
gold  hundi-ed-franc  pieces  with  true-born  American  recklessness 
of  consequence.  And  there,  a  little  way  off,  stands  a  newly 
married  Englishman,  with  his  pretty  small  bride  nestling  close 
up  to  him  in  wifely  expostulation.  Hugh  oould  even  catch 
snatches  of  their  whispered  colloquy :  "  Don't,  George,  don't."— 
"Just  this  once,  Nellie:  a  napoleon  on  red."— Black  wins:  he 
loses. — "  li'm,  the  chances  there  are  only  even.  If  I  win  next 
time,  I  get  nothing  but  my  own  old  napoleon  back  again.  I'll 
go  it  one  better  now:  a  nap  on  a  column.  Then  if  I  win,  you 
see,  I  get  four  times  my  stake,  Nellie." — Lost  again !  How  fast 
they  rake  it  in ! — "  Well,  then,  I'll  back  a  number  this  time." — 
*'0h,  but,  George  dear,  you  know  you  really  can't  afford  it." — 
George,  uualiaslied  by  her  wifely  reproof,  plumps  down  bis 
napoleon  on  32.  Whirr  goes  the  roulette. — "  Bix-huit,"  cries  the 
croupier,  and  sweeps  in  tlio  gold  with  a  careless  curve  of  his 
greedy  hand-rake.  Poor  souls  I  In  his  heart,  Hugh  Massinger 
was  genuinely  sorry  for  tiiem.  If  only  they  had  known  his 
infallible  system! 

But  even  as  lie  thought  it,  ho  roused  himself  with  a  start. 
Eighteen  was  one  of  the  very  numbers  he  had  just  been  waiting 
for.  No  time  for  otiose  reflections  now ;  no  time  for  foolish  waste 
of  sympathy:  the  moment  had  arrived  for  vigorous  action. 
With  a  sharp  decisive  air,  he  plunged  down  a  hundred  louis 
on  white.  Bystanders  stared  and  whispered  and  nudged  oto 
another.  Wliite  won,  and  ho  took  up  his  winnings  with  the 
utmost  complacency.  How  quickly  one  accustoms  one's  self  to 
these  big  figures !  A  hundred  louis  seemed  nothing  now,  in  pur- 
suance of  the  system.  Then  ho  glanced  across  at  George,  poor 
luckless  George,  with  a  mute  inquiry.  How  that  smooth-faced 
young  Englishman  envied  him  his  success;  tor  George,  pojr 


PACTOLUS  INDEED! 


317 


the 


0L> 

the 
ilf  to 
pur- 
poor 
faced 
poi>r 


George,  had  lost  again.  "  Madame  "  Hugh  said,  addressing  him- 
self with  an  apologetic  smile  to  the  pretf.y  young  wife,  "  all6w 
me  to  venture  ten  louis  for  you." — The  blushing  girl  Elirank 
back  timidly.  Hugh  laid  down  len  pieces  of  gold  on  a  number 
again,  backing  his  own  Inck  separately  by  the  regular  rule  on  a 
column  of  figures.  Cliance  seemud  to  favour  him :  he  was  "in 
the  vein,"  as  gamblers  say  in  their  hateful  dinlect.  The  number 
won  for  poor  shrinking  little  Mrs.  Nellie,  and  the  column  also 
won  as  well  for  Hugh  himself.  He  pulled  in  his  own  pile  of 
gold  carelessly,  and  handed  the  other  to  the  pretty  young 
Englishwoman.  "  It  isn't  ours,"  she  murmured  with  a  shy  look. 
"  You  mustn't  ask  me ;  I  really  couldn't  take  it." 

Hugh  laughed,  and  pressed  it  on  the  anxious  husband,  who 
cast  a  sidelong  glance  at  the  heap  of  gold,  and  finally  in  some 
vague  half-hearted  way  decided  upon  accepting  it.  "Now  go," 
Hugh  said  with  a  fatherly  air.  "  You  don't  understand  this  sort 
of  thing,  you  know.  You  belong  to  the  class  predestined  to  be 
cheated.  The  sooner  you  leave  this  place  the  better.  Let  nothing 
induce  you  ever  to  risk  another  penny  as  long  as  you  live  ot 
these  precious  tables."  We  can  all  be  so  wise  and  prudent  for 
others. 

"But  it's  really  yours,"  the  young  Englishman  went  on, 
glancing  down  at  it  sheepishly.  "  You  risked  your  own  money, 
you  see,  to  win  it." 

"  Not  at  all,"  Hugh  answered  with  his  pleasantest  smile ;  he 
knew  how  to  do  a  gracious  act  graciously.  "  I've  taken  back 
my  own  ten  louis  out  of  it  for  myself.  The  rest  is  your  wife's.  I 
staked  it  in  her  name.  It  was  her  good  luck  alone  that  won  for 
both  of  us.  If  you  compel  me  to  keep  it,  you  spoil  my  break. 
A  burst  of  fortune  must  end  somewhere.  Don't  stand  in  my 
way,  please,  for  such  a  mere  trifle." 

The  Englishman's  hand  closed,  half  reluctantly,  over  the  ill- 
gotten  money,  and  Hugh,  undisturbed,  turned  back  again  with 
a  nod  to  his  own  gambling.  The  epiisode  warmed  him  up  to  his 
work.  A  pleasant  sense  of  a  generous  action  prettily  performed 
inspired  and  invigorated  his  play  from  that  moment.  He  w  ent 
on  with  his  game  with  an  approving  cionscience.  Some  people's 
consciences  api)rove  so  blandly.  The  other  players,  too,  observed 
and  applauded.  Gamblers  overflow  with  petty  superstitions. 
One  of  their  profoundest  is  the  rooted  belief  that  meanness  and 
goner(jsity  brhig  each  its  due  reward :  whoever  gambles  in  a 
lavish,  free-hearted,  open-handed  way  is  sure,  they  think,  to 
become  the  favourite  of  fortune. 

The  Eussian,  on  the  other  hand,  kept  on  losing  steadily. 
Now  and  again,  indeed,  he  won  for  awhile  on  some  great  coup, 
rivking  in  his  fifty  or  a  hundred  louis;  but  that  was  by  ex- 
ception :  for  the  most  part,  ho  frittered  away  his  winnings  time 
21 


318 


THIS  MORTAL   COIL. 


i  ^  ■  i 


aftqr  timo,  and  had  recourse  with  alarming  frequency  of  itera- 
tion to  his  bundle  of  notes,  from  which  he  changed  a  thousand 
francs  every  half-hour  or  so  with  persistent  ill-fortune.  Turn 
upon  turn,  he  saw  his  money  ruthlessly  swept  in  by  the  relent- 
less bank  with  unvarying  regularity.  Now  it  ./as  zero  that 
turned  up,  to  confound  his  reckoning,  and  the  croupier  with 
his  bow  made  a  clean  sweep,  offhand,  of  the  entire  table :  now 
it  was  a  long  succession  of  left-hand  numbers  that  won  with 
a  rush,  while  he  had  staked  his  gold  with  unvarying  mishap 
upon  the  right-hand  column.  It  was  ag(mizing  each  time  to 
him  to  see  t'le  bank  carelessly  ladling  out  large  sums  to  Hugh, 
while  he  hiir  self  went  on  losing  and  losing.  But  at  all  hazards, 
he  would  follow  his  calculations  to  the  bitter  end.  Luck  must 
have  a  turn  somewhere ;  and  at  any  rate,  plunging  would  never 
improve  matters.  Hugh  pitied  him  from  his  heart,  poor  igno- 
rant devil.  Why  couldn't  he  find  out  with  an  exercise  of  reason 
that  obvious  flaw  in  his  own  system? 

A  thousand  francs  on  seven!  The  table  stares,  gapes,  and 
whispers.  Heavy  for  a  number !  Who  puts  it  on  ?  This  Mon- 
sieur on  the  seat  here — pointing  to  Hugh.  The  croupier  shrugs 
his  shoulder  and  spins.  Out  jumps  the  pea.  Fourteen  wins. — 
Monsieur  was  very  nearly  right  ajiain,  voyez-vous?— Fourteen, 
my  friend,  is  just  the  precise  double  of  seven.  Monsieur's  luck 
is  something  truly  miraculous. — He  goes  a  thousand  francs  once 
more,  still  on  seven,  del  I  but  he  has  the  courage  of  his  con- 
victions, mon  ami!  Twenty-three  wins. — Wrong  again!  Ho 
drops  on  that  a  second  thousand.  But  with  what  grace!  A 
thousand  francs  is  nothing  to  these  milords.  Hugh  smiles 
imperturbably  and  stakes  a  third.  On  seven  again !  The  man 
is  wonderful.  What  wins  this  time? — "Sept  gagne,"  cries 
everybody  in  hushed  admiration;  and  Hugh,  more  sphinx-like 
in  his  smile  than  ever,  but  conscious  of  a  dozen  admiring  eyes 
fixed  full  upon  him,  takes  coolly  up  his  thirty-five  thousand. 
Thirty-five  thousand  francs  is  not  to  be  sneezed  at.  Fourteen 
hundred  pounds  sterling!  The  biggest  haul  yet,  but  nothing 
when  you're  accustomed  to  it.  What  a  run  of  luck !  Monsieur 
was  in  the  vein  indeed.  He  played  on  and  on,  more  elated  than 
ever.    At  this  rate,  ho  would  soon  earn  a  fortune  for  Elsie. 

Elsie,  Elsie,  Elsie,  Elsie  1  Through  the  din  and  noise  of  that 
crowded  gambling-hell,  one  sacred  name  still  rang  distinct  and 
clear  in  his  ears.  It  was  all  for  Elsie,  for  Elsie,  for  Elsie  1  He 
must  make  himself  rich,  to  marry  Elsie. 

He  played  on  still  with  careless  eagerness  till  the  tables  closed 
— played  with  a  continuous  run  of  luck,  often  varying,  of  cours  j 
— for  who  minds  a  few  hundreds  to  the  bad  now  and  then  when 
he's  winning  one  time  with  another  his  thousands  ? — but  on  the 
whole  u  run  of  luck  persistently  favourable.    Raflfalevsky,  mean- 


PACT0LU8  INDEED  I 


319 


while,  had  played  and  lost.  At.  the  end  of  the  day,  as  the 
lackeys  came  in  to  bow  the  world  out  with  polite  smiles,  they 
both  rose  and  loft  the  rooms  together.  T,ien  a  sudden  thought 
flashed  across  his  soul.  Too  late  to  return  to  San  Remo  now! 
Awkward  as  it  was,  he  must  stop  the  night  out  at  Monte  Carlo. 
Full  of  hiniFelf — of  play  and  of  Elsie — he  had  actually  forgotten 
all  about  Winifred ! 

They  wa  ked  across  side  by  side  to  the  Hotel  de  Paris.  Hugh 
was  far  too  feverishly  excited  now  with  his  day's  play  to  care 
in  the  least  about  the  slight  and  the  insult  to  that  poor  dead 
girl.  The  mere  indecency  of  it  was  all  that  he  minded,  A 
cynical  hardness  possessed  hira  at  last.  Nobody  need  know. 
He  strolled  to  the  telegraph  office  and  boldly  sent  off  a  message 
to  the  pension : 

"Detained  at  Mentone  with  sympathizing  friends.  Return 
to-morrow.     Make  all  arrangements  on  my  account. — Mas- 

BINGEK." 

Then  he  presonted  himself  at  the  bureau  of  the  Hotel  de  Paris. 
Monsieur  had  no  luggage;  but  no  matter  for  that:  the  hotel 
made  haste  to  accommodate  him  at  once  with  the  best  of  rooms, 
not  even  requiring  a  deposit  beforehand.  All  Monte  Carlo  knew 
well,  indeed,  that  Monsieur  had  been  winning.  His  name  and 
fame  had  been  noised  abroad  by  many-headed  trumpeters.  His 
iwckets  wero  literally  stuffed  with  gold.  He  was  the  hero  of 
the  day.  He  had  carried  everything  at  the  Casino  before  him. 
Attentive  servants  awaited  his  merest  beck  or  nod;  everybody 
was  pleased ;  the  world  smiled  on  him.  Alphonse,  Marie,  look 
well  after  Monsieur!  Monsieur  has  had  the  very  best  of 
forlane. 

Ho  supped  with  Raffalcvsky  in  a  beautifully  decorated  aaJle- 
a-manger.  They  recounted  to  one  anothor,  gleefully,  gloomily, 
their  winnings  and  losses.  The  totals  were  heavy.  They  totted 
them  up  with  varying  emotions.  Hugh  had  won  three  thousand 
four  hundred  pounds.  Eaffalevsky  had  made  a  hole  in  his 
larger  capital  to  the  tune  of  something  like  two  thousand  seven 
hundred.  At  the  announcement,  Hugh  smiled  his  most  benevo- 
lent and  philosophical  smile.  "After  all,"  he  said,  as  he  scanned 
the  wine-card,  toothpick  in  hand,  in  search  of  a  perfectly  sound 
Burgundy,  "if  one  man  wins,  another  must  lose.  You  have 
there  the  initial  weak  point  of  gambling.  It's  at  bottom  a 
truly  anti-social  amusement.  But  these  things  equalise  them- 
selves in  the  long  run ;  they  equalise  theraselves  by  the  doctrine 
of  averages.  Taken  collectively,  we're  better  off  than  we  were 
at  lunch  at  any  rate.  Then,  his  Serenity  of  Monaco  had  pocketed 
a  couple  of  hundred  louis  out  of  the  pair  of  us,  viewed  in  the 
lump.  This  evening,  on  the  contrary,  we're  seven  hundred 
pounds  to  the  good,  as  a  firm,  against  him. — I  like  to  best  these 


u: 


320 


THIS  MORTAL   COIL. 


hereditary  plunderers.  It's  a  comfort  to  think  that,  in  spite 
of  everything,  we're  more  than  even  with  him  on  the  day's 
transactions ! " 

Eaffalevsky,  however,  strange  to  say,  appeared  to  derive  but 
scanty  con.sohition  from  this  very  vicarious  joint-stock  triumph; 
he  didn't  see  things  in  the  proper  light.  The  man  was  sullen, 
positively  sullen.  Apparently,  a  person  of  morose  disposition ! 
Pe  )i)le  oughtn't  to  let  a  little  reverse  of  fortune  produce  such 
obviously  damjiiiig  effects  upon  their  minds  and  spirits.  At  all 
hazards,  they  should  at  least  bo  polite  in  general  society.  "  if 
you'd  lost  fifty  or  sixty  thousand  francs  yourself,  Monsieur,"  the 
Russian  cried  petulantly,  "you  wouldn't  talk  in  quite  so  airy 
and  easy  a  way  about  our  joint  position." 

"  Possibly  not,"  Hugh  answered,  witn  perfect  good-humour, 
showing  his  even  row  of  pearl-white  teeth  in  a  pleasant  smile, 
and  toying  with  the  pickle-fork.  Fortune  had  favoured  him. 
He  would  bear  it  gracefully.  No  meanness  for  him !  He  would 
do  things  on  the  proper  scale  now.  He'd  stand  Eaffalevsky  a 
splendid  supper.  He  summoned  the  waiter  with  a  lordly  wave 
or"  his  languid  hand  and  ordered  a  bottle  of  the  very  finest  white 
Hermitage. 


r 


CHAPTER  XL VI. 


TEE   TUUN  OF  THE  TIDE. 


At  Paris,  Warren  Relf  parted  with  Elsie.  He  saw  her  safely 
to  the  Northern  Kailway  Station,  put  her  into  the  first  night- 
train  for  Calais,  and  then  wriggled  back  himself  to  his  temporary 
lair,  a  quiet  hotel  on  the  Cours-la-Keine,  just  behind  the  Palais 
de  I'Industrie.  He  went  back  to  bed,  but  not  to  sleep.  It  was 
a  gusty  night,  that  night  in  Paris.  The  wind  shook  and  rattled 
the  loo?!e  panes  in  the  big  French  windows  that  opened  on  to 
the  balcony ;  the  rain  beat  wildly  in  sudden  rushes  against  the 
rattling  glass ;  the  chimney-pots  on  all  the  neighbouring  roofs 
moaned  and  howled  and  shivered  in  concert.  Warren  Relf 
reproached  himself  bitterly,  as  he  listened  to  its  sound,  that 
he  hadn't  decided  on  escorting  Elsie  the  whole  of  her  way  across 
to  England.  Mrs.  Grundy  wou'd  no  doubt  have  disapproved, 
to  be  sure ;  but  what  did  he  care  in  his  heart,  after  all,  for  that 
strange  apotheosis  of  censorious  matronhood?  It  would  have 
been  better  to  have  seen  Elsie  safe  across  the  Channel,  Mrs. 
Grundy  to  the  contrary  notwithstanding,  and  installed  her 
comfortably  ip  London  lodgings.  He  wished  he  had  done  it, 
now  he  her  rd  how  the  \ynd  was  roaring  and  tearing ;  a  north- 


THE  TURN  OF  THE  TIDE. 


321 


east  wind,  yet  damp  and  rain-laden.  Warren  Relf  knew  ifs 
ways  and  its  manners  full  well.  It  must  bo  blowing  great- 
guns  across  the  !Nortli  Sea  now,  he  felt  only  too  sure,  and 
forcing  whole  squadrons  of  angry  waves  through  the  narrow 
funnel  of  the  Straits  of  Dover. 

As  the  night  wore  on,  however,  the  wind  rose  steadily,  till  it 
reached  at  last  the  full  dignity  of  a  regular  tempest.  Warren 
Eelf  couldn't  sleep  in  his  bed  for  distress.  He  rose  often,  and 
looked  out  on  the  gusty  street  for  cold  comfort.  The  gas  was 
flaring  and  flickering  in  the  lamps;  the  wind  was  sweeping 
fiercely  down  the  Cours-la-Eeine ;  and  the  few  belated  souls 
who  still  kept  the  pavement  were  cowering  and  running  before 
the  beating  rain  with  heads  bent  down  and  cloaks  or  overcoats 
wrapped  tight  around  them.  It  must  indeed  be  an  awful  night 
on  the  English  Channel ;  Warren  stood  aghast  to  think  to 
himself  how  awful.  What  on  earth  could  ever  have  possessed 
him.  he  wondered  now,  to  let  Elsie  tnako  her  way  alone,  on 
such  a  terrible  evening  as  this,  without  him  by  her  side,  across 
the  stormy  water! 

He  would  receive  a  telegram,  thank  Heaven,  first  thing  in  the 
morning.    Till  then,  his  suspense  would  be  really  painful. 

As  for  Elsie,  she  sped  all  unconscious  on  her  way  to  Calais, 
comfortably  ensconced  in  her  first-class  compartment  "pour 
dames  seules,"  of  which  she  had  fortunately  the  sole  monopoly. 
The  rain  beat  hard  against  the  windows,  to  be  sure ;  and  ^..le 
wind  shook  the  door  with  its  gusts  more  than  once,  or  made 
the  feeble  oil-lamp  in  the  roof  of  the  carriage  flicker  fitfully ; 
but  Elsie,  absorbed  in  deeper  afl'airs,  hardly  thought  of  it  at  all 
in  her  own  mind  till  she  reached  the  stretch  of  open  coast  that 
abuts  on  the  mouth  of  the  Somme  near  Abbeville.  There  the 
fact  began  at  last  to  force  itself  upon  her  languid  attention  that 
the  Channel  crossing  would  be  distinctly  rough.  Still,  even 
then,  she  hardly  realized  its  full  meaning,  for  the  wind  was  off- 
shore along  the  Picardy  coast;  and  it  was  not  till  the  train 
drew  up  with  a  dash  on  the  quay  at  Calais  that  she  fully  under- 
stood the  serious  gravity  of  the  situati(m.  The  waves  were 
breaking  fiercely  over  the  mouth  of  the  harbour,  and  the  sea 
was  rising  so  high  outside  that  passengers  were  met  with  stern 
resolve  at  the  terminus  wall  by  the  curt  notice : 

"Owing  to  the  rough  weather  prevailing  to-night,  the  Dover 
boat  will  not  sail  till  morning." 

"  A  cause  du  mauvais  temps."  Cause  enough,  to  be  sure,  with 
such  a  sea  running !  Elsie  saw  at  a  glance  that  to  cross  through 
such  a  mountain  of  waves  would  have  been  quite  impossible. 
Did  the  Boulogne  boat  intend  to  start  ?  she  asked  helplessly.— 
No,  madame;  the  service  all  along  the  coast  was  interrupted 
to-night,  by  stress  of  % eather.    Theie  would  be  no  steamer  til| 


n 


I. 


822 


THIS  MORTAL  COIL. 


the  wind  moderated.     To-morrow  morning,  perhaps,  or  to- 
morrow evening. 

So  Elsie  went  perforce  to  an  hotel  in  the  town  and  waited 
pationtly  for  the  sea  to  calm  itself.  But  she,  too,  got  no  sleep; 
she  lay  awake  all  night,  and  thought  of  Winifred. 

Away  at  Monte  Carlo,  no  wind  blew.    Hugh  Massinger  went 
to  rest  there  at  his  ease  at  the  Hotel  de  Paris,  and  slept  his  sleep 
out  with  perfect  complacency.    No  qualms  of  conscience,  no 
thoughts  of  Winifred,  disturbed  his  slumber.    He  had  taken 
the  precaution  to  doubly  lock  and  bolt  his  door,  and  to  lay 
his  winnings  between  the  bolster  and  the  mattress ;  so  he  had 
nothing  to  trouble  about.    He  had  also  been  careful  to  purchase 
a  good  six-chambered  revolver  at  one  of  the  numerous  shops 
that  line  the  Casino  gardens.    It  isn't  safe,  indeed,  at  Monte 
Carlo,  they  say,  for  a  successful  player,  recognized  as  such,  to 
go  about  with  too  much  money  as  hard  cash  actually  in  his 
possession.    Eaffalevsky,  in  fact,  had  told  him,  with  most  un- 
necessary details,  some  very  unpleasant  stories,  before  he  retired 
to  rest,  about  robberies  committed  at  Monte  Carlo  upon  the 
helpless  bodies  of  heavy  winners.    Raflfalevsky  was  clearly  in 
a  savage  ill-temper  that  evening  at  having  dropped  a  few 
thousand  pounds  at  the    tables  —  strange,  that  men  should 
permit  themselves  to  be  so  deeply  affected  by  mere  transient 
trifling  monetary  reverses — and  he  took  it  out  by  repeating  or 
inventing  trucultnt  tales,  evi  iently  intended  to  poison  the  calm 
rest  of  Hugh  Massinjier's  innocent  slumbers.    There  was  that 
ugly  anecdote,  for  example,  about  the  lucky  boulevardier  in  the 
high  financial  line  who  won  three  hundred  thousand  francs  at 
a  couple  of  sittings  -  and  was  murdered  in  a  first-class  carriage 
on  his  way  back  to  Nice  by  an  unknown  assailant,  never  again 
recognized  or  brought  to  justice.    There  was  that  alarming 
incident  of  the  fat  Lyons  silk-merchant  with  the  cast  in  his 
eye  who  deposited  his  gains,  like  a  prudent  bourgeois  that  he 
was,  with  a  banker  at  Monaco,  but  was  nevertheless  set  upon 
by  an  organized  band  of  three  well-dressed  but  ill-informed 
ruflBans,  who  positively  searched  him  from  head  to  foot,  stripped 
him,  and  then  threw  hirn  out  ui)on  the  four-foot  way,  a  helpless 
mass,  in  the  Mont  Boron  Tunnel,  happy  to  escape  with  bare  life 
and  a  broken  leg  from  the  merciless  clutches  of  the  gang  of 
miscreants.     And  there  was  that  dramatic  incident  of   the 
Nevada  heiress  who,  coming  to  Monte  Carlo  with  the  gold  of 
California  visibly  bulging  her  capacious  pockets,  had  to  fight 
lor  her  life  in  her  own  bedroom  at  this  very  hotel,  and  defend 
her  property  from  unholy  hands  by  the  summary  process  of 
shooting  down  with  her  own  domestic  revolver  two  of  her 
cowardly  midnight  visitors.     She  was  complimented  by  the 
authorities  on  her  gallant  defence,  and  replied  with  spirit  that, 


THE  TURN  OF  THE  TIDE. 


823 


for  the  matter  of  that,  this  sort  of  thing  was  really  no  novelty 
to  her ;  for  she'd  shot  down  more  than  one  importunate  suitor 
for  her  hand  and  heart  already  in  Nevada. 

Then  Eafifa'evsky  had  grown  more  lugubrious  in  his  converse 
still,  and  descended  to  tales  of  the  recurrent  suicides  that  diver- 
sify the  monotony  of  the  Monegasque  world.  He  estimated  that 
twelve  persons  at  least  per  annum,  on  a  moderate  average,  blew 
their  brains  out  in  the  Casino  and  grounds,  after  risking  and 
losing  their  last  napoleon  at  the  roulette  tables.  To  kill  your- 
self in  the  actual  saloons  themselves,  he  admitted  with  a  sigli, 
was  indeed  considered  by  gentlemanly  players  as  a  boorish 
solecism :  persons  of  breeding,  intent  on  an  exit  from  this  vale 
of  tears,  usually  retired  for  the  purpose  of  shooting  themselves 
to  a  remote  and  sequestered  spot  in  the  Casino  gardens,  behind 
a  convenient  clump  of  picturesque  date-palms.  This  spot  was 
known  to  habitual  frequenters  of  Monte  Carlo  as  the  Place 
Hari-kiri,  or  Happy  Despatch  Point.  But  if,  by  hazard,  any 
inconsiderate  person  was  moved  to  shoot  himself  in  the  salies 
de  jeu,  a  rapid  contingent  of  trained  lackeys  stood  ever  at  hantl 
ready  to  rush  in  at  a  moment's  notice  to  drag  away  the  offender's 
body  or  wipe  up  the  mess;  and  play  proceeded  at  once  the  same 
as  usual. 

Raffalevsky  dilated  upon  all  the  particulars  of  the  various 
murders,  suic'  ies,  and  robberies,  with  a  wealth  of  diction  and 
a  fertile  exuberance  of  sanguinary  detail  that  would  certainly 
liave  done  honour  in  its  proper  place  to  M.  Zola  or  a  penny 
dreadful.  It  shocked  Hugh's  fine  sense  of  the  becoming  in 
l.inguage — his  keen  feeling  for  reserve  in  literature — to  listen 
to  so  many  revolting  and  sickening  items.  But  the  Russian 
was  clearly  iu  a  humour  that  evening  for  blood  and  wounds. 
He  spared  no  strong  point  in  his  catalogue  of  horrors.  He 
revelled  in  gore.  He  insisted  on  the  minutest  accuiacy  of 
anatomical  description.  He  robbed  and  murdered  like  one 
who  loved  it.  He  even  strained  the  resources  of  the  French 
language,  suflBciently  rich,  for  the  rest,  in  terms  of  awe,  as  ho 
rang  the  changes  and  piled  up  the  agonies  in  his  vivid  recital 
of  crimes  and  catastrophies. 

Nevertheless,  Hugh  slept  soundly  in  spite  of  it  all  in  his  bod 
till  morning,  and  when  he  woke,  found  his  goodly  pile  of  gold 
and  notes  intact  as  ever  between  bolster  and  mattrcaS.  He  had 
never  slept  so  well  since  he  went  to  Whitestrand. 

i3ut  at  Whitestrand  itself  that  night  things  were  quite  other- 
wise. Such  a  storm  was  hardly  remembered  on  the  Gorman 
Ocean  within  the  memory  of  the  oldest  sailors.  Early  in  the 
evening,  the  coastguardman  at  the  shelter  just  beyond  the  Hall 
grounds,  warned  by  telegram  from  the  Meteorological  Otiico, 


324 


THIS  MORTAL   COIL. 


■  I  * 


had  raised  the  cone  for  heavy  weather  from  the  north-east.  By 
nine  o'clock,  the  surf  was  seething  and  boiling  on  the  bar,  and 
the  waves  were  dashing  themselves  in  huge  sheets  of  foam 
against  Hugh  Massinger's  ineffectual  breakwater.  The  sand 
flew  free  before  the  angry  gusts :  it  blinded  the  eyes  and  filled 
the  lungs  of  all  who  tried  to  face  the  storm  on  the  sea-front : 
even  up  the  river  and  at  the  Hall  itself  it  pervaded  the  air  with 
a  perfect  bombardment  of  tiny  grains.  It  was  only  possible  to 
remain  outdoors  by  turning  one's  back  upon  the  fierce  blast,  or 
by  covering  one's  face,  not  with  a  veil,  but  with  a  silk  pocket- 
handkercluef.  The  very  coastguardmen,  accustomed  by  long  use 
to  good  doses  of  solid  silica  in  the  lungs,  shrank  back  with 
alarm  from  the  idea  of  facing  that  running  fire  of  driven  sand- 
particles.  As  for  the  smacks  and  boats  at  large  on  the  sea, 
they  were  left  to  their  fate — nothing  could  be  done  by  human 
hands  to  help  or  save  them. 

By  midnight,  tide  was  well  at  its  full,  and,  the  beach  being 
covered,  the  bombardment  of  sand  slowly  intermitted  a  little. 
But  sheets  of  foam  and  spray  still  drove  on  before  the  wind,  and 
fishermen,  clad  in  waterproof  suits  from  head  to  foot,  stood 
facing  them  upon  the  shore  to  watch  the  fate  of  Hugh  Mas- 
singer's  poor  helpless  breakwater.  The  sea  was  roaring  and 
raving  round  its  sides  now  like  a  horde  of  savages,  and  the 
scour  was  setting  in  fiercer  than  ever  to  wash  away  whatever 
remained  of  Whitestrand. 

"Will  it  stand,  Bill?"  the  farm-bailiff  asked  in  anxious  tones 
of  Stannaway  the  innkeeper,  as  they  strained  their  eyes  through 
the  gloom  and  spray  to  catch  sight  of  the  frail  barrier  that 
alone  protected  them — the  stone  breakwater  which  had  taken 
the  place  of  the  old  historical  Whitestrand  poplar. 

Stannaway  shook  his  head  despondently.  "Sea  like  that's 
bound  to  wash  it  away,"  he  answered  hard  through  the  teeth 
of  the  wind.  "It'd  wash  away  anything.  An'  when  it  goes, 
it's  all  up  with  Whitestrand." 

The  whole  village,  indeed,  men,  women,  and  children  alike, 
had  collected  by  this  time  at  the  point  by  the  river,  to  watch 
the  progress  of  the  common  enemy.  There  was  a  fearfnl  interest 
for  every  one  of  them  in  seeing  the  waves  assail  and  beat  down 
that  final  barrier  of  their  hearths  and  homes.  If  the  break- 
water went,  Whitestrand  must  surely  follow  it,  now  or  later, 
bit  by  bit,  in  piecemeal  destruction.  The  sea  would  swallow 
it  up  wholesale,  as  it  swallowed  up  Dunwich  and  Thorpe  and 
Slaughden.  Those  domestic  examples  gave  point  to  their 
terror.  To  the  Suffolk  coast-dwellers,  the  sea  indeed  envisages 
itself  ever,  not  as  a  mere  natural  expanse  of  water,  but  as  a 
slow  and  patient  yet  implacable  assailant. 

By  two  in  the  morning,  a  fresh  excitement  supervened  to  keep 


1 


THE  TURN  OF  THE  TIDE. 


325 


By 


np  the  interest :  a  collier  hull,  deserted  and  waterlogged,  came 
drifting  in  by  slow  stages  before  tlio  driving  gale  across  the 
broad  sand-flats.  She  was  a  dismasted  hulk,  rackety  and  un- 
scaworthy,  abandoned  by  all  who  had  tried  to  sail  her;  and  she 
drifted  slowly,  slowly,  slowly  on,  driven  before  the  waves,  foot 
by  foot,  a  bit  at  a  time,  over  the  wet  sands,  till  at  last,  with  one 
supreme  effort  of  force,  the  breakers  cast  her  up,  a  huge  burden, 
between  the  shore  and  the  breakwater,  blocking  with  her  broad- 
side one  entire  end  of  the  channel  created  by  the  scour  behind 
the  spot  once  occupied  by  the  famous  poplar.  The  waves,  in 
fact,  dashed  her  full  against  the  further  end  of  the  breakwater, 
and  jammed  her  up  with  prodigious  force  between  shore  and 
wall,  a  temporary  barrier  against  their  own  advances.  Then 
retiring  for  a  moment  to  recruit  their  rage,  they  broke  in  sheets 
of  helpless  foam  against  the  wooden  bulwark  they  had  raised 
themselves  in  the  direct  line  of  their  own  progress. 

What  followed  next,  followed  so  fast  that  even  the  sturdy 
Whitestranclcrs  themselves,  accustomed  as  they  were  to  heavy 
seas  and  shifting  sands  and  natural  changes  of  mnrvellous 
rapidity,  stood  aghast  at  its  suddenness  and  its  awful  energy. 
In  a  few  minutes,  before  their  very  eyes,  the  sea  had  carried 
huge  masses  and  shoals  of  flying  sand  over  the  top  of  the  wall 
and  the  stranded  ship,  and  lodged  them  deep  in  the  hollow 
below  that  the  scour  had  created  in  the  rear  of  the  breakwater. 
The  wall  was  joined  as  if  by  some  sudden  stroke  of  a  conjurer's 
wand  to  the  mainland  beyond;  and  the  sea,  still  dashing  madly 
against  the  masonry  and  the  ship,  set  to  work  once  more  to 
erect  fresh  outworks  in  front  against  its  own  assaults  by  piling 
up  sand  with  incredible  speed  in  dunes  and  muunds  upon  thnir 
outer  faces.     Even  as  they  looked,  the  breakwater  was  rapidly 
lost  to  view  in  a  mountain  of  beach :  the  broken  stump  of  mast 
on  the  wrecked  collier  hardly  showed  above  the  level  of  tlie 
nuishroom  hillock  that  covered  and  overwhelmed  with  its  hasty 
debris  the  buried  hull  of  the  unknown  vessel.    Hummock  after 
hummock  grew  apace  outside  with  startling  rapidity  in  suc- 
cessive lines  along  the  shore  to  searvard.    >Jew  land  was  form- 
ing at  each  crash  of  the  waves.    The  JLolian  sand  was  doing 
its  work  bravely.    By  five  in  the  morning,  men  walked  secure 
where  the  sea  had  roared  but  six  hours  before.    It  had  left  the 
buried  breakwater  now  a  quarter  of  a  mile  inland  at  least,  and 
was  still  engaged  with  mad  eagerness  in  its  rapid  task  of  piling 
up  fresh  mounds  and  heaps  in  endless  rows,  to  seaward  and  to 
seaward  and  ever  to  seaward. 

Whitestrand  was  saved.  Nay, more  than  that:  it  was  gaining 
once  more  in  a  single  night  all  that  it  had  lost  in  twenty  years 
to  the  devouring  ocean. 

When  morning  broke,  the  astonished  Whitestranders  could 


820 


THIS  MORTAL  COIL, 


m 


'.i\ 


hardly  rcco;;nizo  thofr  own  "bcacb,  thoir  own  shoro,  tlicir  own 
salt  marshes,  thoir  own  river.  Evorytliing  was  changed  as  if 
by  magic.  The  estuary  was  gone,  and  in  its  place  stretched 
a  wide  expanse  of  undulating  sandhills.  The  Char  had  turned 
its  ccjurse  visibly  southward,  bursting  the  dikes  on  the  Yond- 
Blream  farms,  and  flowing  to  the  sea  by  the  old  channel  from 
which  Oliver's  engineers  had  long  since  diverted  it.  The  Hall 
stood  half  a  mile  further  from  the  water's  edge  than  it  had  done 
of  old,  and  a  btlt  of  bare  and  ope  n  dune-land  lay  tossed  between 
its  grounds  and  the  new  high-tide  mark.  The  farm-bailiff  ex- 
amined them  in  the  gray  dawn  with  a  practical  eye.  "  If  we 
plant  them  hills  all  over  with  miiramgrass  and  tamarisk,"  he 
said  reflectively,  "they'll  mat  like  tne  other  ones,  and  Sqnire'U 
have  as  many  acres  of  new  pasture-land  north  o'  Char  as  ever 
he  lost  o'  salt  marsh  and  meadow  south  of  the  old  river." 

If  Hugh  Massinger  had  only  known  it,  indeed,  the  storm  and 
the  strange  chances  of  tempest  had  done  far  more  for  him  that 
single  night  while  he  slept  at  Monte  Carlo  than  luck  at  roulette 
had  managed  to  do  for  him  the  day  before  in  that  hot  and 
crowded  sink  of  iniquity  in  the  rooms  of  tlie  Casino. 

For  from  that  day  forth  Whitestrand  was  safe.  It  was  moro 
than  safe ;  it  began  to  grow  again.  The  blown  sand  ceased  to 
molest  it:  the  sea  and  the  tide  ceased  to  eat  it  away:  the 
breakwater  had  done  its  work  well,  after  all;  and  a  new  barrier 
of  increasing  sandhills  had  sprung  up  spontaneously  by  the 
river's  mouth  to  guard  its  seaward  half  from  future  encroach- 
ment. If  Hugh  ct)uld  only  have  known  and  believed  it,  the 
estate  was  worth  every  bit  as  much  that  wild  morning  as  ever 
it  had  been  in  the  palmiest  days  of  the  Elizabethan  Meyscys. 
And  the  family  solicitor,  examining  the  mortgages  in  his  own 
oifice,  remarked  to  himself  with  a  pensive  glance  that  the 
Squire  might  have  raised  that  little  sum,  if  only  he'd  waited, 
at  scarcely  more  than  half  the  interest,  on  his  own  security  and 
his  improved  property.  For  Whitestrand  now  would  letch 
money. 


CHAPTER      XLVII. 


f 


FORTUNE  OP  WAB. 

At  Monte  Carlo,  on  the  othei'  hand,  day  dawned  serene  and 
calm  and  cloudless.  Hugh  Massinger  rose,  unmindful  of  his 
far-away  Suifolk  sandhills,  and  gazed  with  a  pleasant  dreamy 
f(!oling  out  of  the  window  of  his  luxurious  first-floor  bedroom. 
It  was  a  btrange  outlook.    On  one  side^  the  ornate  and  over- 


FORTUNE  OF  WAR, 


827 


loaded  Parisian  nrcliitootnre  of  that  palaco  of  Circo,  pluinpod 
down  so  grotesquely,  with  its  meretricious  town-bred  airs  and 
graces, among  the  rugped  scenery  of  the  Maritime  Alps :  on  the 
other  side,  the  inacc  ssible  crags  and  piniiaelcs  of  the  Teto-de- 
Chien,  gray  and  lonely  as  any  mountain  side  in  Scotland  or 
Savoy — the  actual  terminus  of  the  main  range  of  snow-clad 
Alps,  whoso  bald  peaks  topple  rtver  sheer  three  thousand  feet 
into  the  blue  expanse  of  the  Mediterranean,  that  washes  the 
base  of  their  precipitous  blutfs.  The  contrast  was  almost  ludi- 
crous in  its  quaint  extremes.  If  wit  be  rightly  defined  as  the 
juxtaposition  of  the  incongruous,  then  is  Monte  Carlo  indeed  a 
grand  embodiment  of  the  practically  witty.  The  spot  would  be 
a  Paradise  if  it  were  not  a  Hell.  The  Casino  stands  on  its  ledge 
of  terrace  like  a  fragment  of  Paris  in  its  worst  phase,  droftped 
down  from  the  clouds  by  some  Merlin's  art  amid  the  wihiest 
and  most  exquisite  rocky  scenery  on  the  whole  glorious  stretch 
of  enchanted  coast  that  spreads  its  long  and  fantastic  panorama 
in  unbroken  succepsion  of  hill  and  mountain  from  the  quays  of 
Marseilles  to  the  palaces  of  Genoa. 

He  did  not  wholly  approve  the  desecration.  Hugh  Mas- 
singer's  tastes  were  not  all  distorted.  Difesipation  to  him  was 
but  a  small  part  and  fraction  of  existence.  He  took  it  only  as 
tlie  mustard  of  life— an  agreeable  condiment  to  be  sparingly 
partaken  of. — The  poet's  instinct  within  him  had  kept  alive  and 
fresh  his  healthy  interest  in  simpler  things,  in  hill  and  dale,  in 
calm  and  peaceful  country  pleasures.  After  that  feverish  dfty 
of  gambling  at  Monte  Carlo,  he  would  dearly  have  loved  to  rise 
early  and  saunter  out  alone  for  a  morning  walk ;  to  scale  before 
breakfast  the  ramping  cliffs  of  the  Tote-de-Chien,  and  to  reach 
the  mouldering  Koman  tower  of  Turbia,  that  long  moun+ed 
guard  on  the  narrow  path  where  Gaul  and  Italy  marched 
together.  But  that  hateful  pile  of  gold  and  notes  between  the 
pillow  and  the  mattress  restrained  his  desire.  It  would  be 
dangerous  to  wander  among  the  lonely  mountains  with  so  large 
a  sum  as  that  concealed  about  his  person ;  dangerous  to  leave 
it  unguarded  at  the  hotel,  or  to  entrust  it  to  the  keeping 
of  any  casual  stranger.  "Cantabit  vacuus  coram  latrone 
viator,"  he  murmured  to  himself  half  aloud  with  a  sigh  of 
regret,  as  he  turned  away  his  eyes  from  that  glorious  semicircle 
of  jagged  peaks  that  bounded  his  horizon.  He  must  stop  at 
home  and  take  care  of  his  money-bags,  like  any  vulgar  cheese- 
niongering  millionaire  of  them  all.  Down,  poet's  heart,  with 
your  unreasonable  aspirations  for  the  lonely  mountain  heights ! 
Amaryllis  and  asphodel  are  not  for  you.  Shoulder  your  muck- 
rake with  a  manful  smile,  and  betake  you  to  the  Casino  where 
Circe  calls,  as  soon  as  the  great  gate  swings  once  more  on  its 
grating  hinges.    You  cannot  serve  two  masters.    You  have 


328 


THIS  MORTAL  COIL, 


^ 


r- 


cliosen  Mammon  to-diiy,  and  him  you  must  worship.  No 
mountain  air  for  your  linigs  this  morning;  but  tho  closo  and 
crowded  atmosphere  of  tho  roulotto  tables.  Keep  true  to  your 
creed  for  a  Httlo  while  longer:  it  is  all  for  Elsie's  sake ! — For 
Elsio!  For  Elsio! — llo  withdrew  his  licad  from  the  window 
with  a  faint  finsh  of  shame.  Ah,  heaven,  to  think  he  should 
think  of  Elsio  in  such  a  conncctiou  and  at  such  a  moment ! 

Ho  had  the  grace  liimself  to  be  heartily  disgusted  at  it. 
Gambling  was  i!idee(i  a  hateful  trade.  When  once  he  had  won 
a  fortune  for  Elsie,  he  would  never  again  touch  card  or  dico, 
never  let  lier  learn  whence  that  fortune  had  been  gathered.  He 
would  oven  try  to  keep  her  out  of  his  mind,  for  her  purity's 
sake,  while  ho  remained  at  Monte  Carlo.  He  loved  her  too  well 
to  drag  her  into  that  horrid  Casino,  were  it  but  in  memory.  A 
man  is  himself,  one  and  indivisible;  but  still  he  must  hold  tho 
various  parts  of  his  complex  nature  at  arm's-length,  sometimes  : 
he  must  prevent  them  from  clashing:  ho  must  refrain  from 
mixing  up  what  is  purest  and  truest  and  profoundest  in  his 
heart  with  all  that  is  vilest  and  lowest  and  ugliest  and  most 
money-grubbing.  Hugh  had  an  unsullied  shrine  left  vacant 
for  EJsie  still :  he  would  not  profane  that  inmost  niche  of  his 
better  soul  with  the  poisonous  air  of  the  gambling  hells  of 
Monaco.    Let  him  sink  where  he  would,  he  was  yet  a  poet. 

Ho  dressed  himself  slowly  and  went  down  to  breakfast. 
Attentive  waiters,  expectant  of  a  duly  commensv  q  tip, 
sniflHng  pour-boire  from  afar,  crowded  round  for  the  ur  of 

his  distinguished  orders.  Eaffalevsky  joined  him  in  tnu  salle-d- 
mavger  shortly.  The  Russian  was  haggard  and  pale  from  slecip- 
lessness:  dark  rings  surrounded  his  glassy  black  eyes:  his  face 
was  the  face  of  a  boiled  codfish.  No  waiter  hurried  to  receive 
his  commands ;  all  Monte  Carlo  knew  him  well  already  for  a 
heavy  loser.  Your  loser  seldom  overflows  into  generous  tipping. 
Hugh  beckoned  him  over  to  his  own  table:  he  would  extend  to 
the  llussian  the  easy  favour  of  his  profuse  hospitality.  Eaffa- 
levsky seated  himself  in  a  sulky  humour  by  the  winner's  side. 
He  meant  to  play  it  out  still,  ho  said,  to  the  bitter  end.  He 
couldn't  afford  to  lose  and  leave  off;  that  game  was  for  capi- 
talists. For  himself,  he  speculated — well — on  borrowed  funds. 
Ho  must  win  all  back  or  io^e  all  utterly.  In  the  latter  case — a 
significunt  getituro  completed  tho  sentence.  He  put  up  his 
hand  playfully  to  his  right  ear  and  clicked  with  his  tongue, 
like  the  click  of  a  revolver  barrel.  Hugh  smiled  responsive  his 
most  meaning  smile.  "  Esperons  toujours,"  he  murmured 
philosophically  in  his  musical  voice  and  perfect  accent.  No 
man  on  earth  could  ever  bear  with  more  philosophical  com- 
posure than  Hugh  Massinger  the  misfortunes  of  others. 

Before  he  left  the  breakfast-table  that  morning,  a  waiter 


■F 


jPORTUNE  OF  WAR. 


329 


presented  tlie  bill,  all  deferential  politeness.  "  I  sleep  hero  to- 
night ttf^ain,"  Hugh  observed  with  a  yawu;  as  he  noted  atten- 
tively the  lordly  conception  of  its  various  items.  The  waiter 
bowed  a  profound  bow. — '*  At  Monto  Carlo,  Monsieur,"  ho  said 
significantly,  "one  pays  dailj'." — Hugh  drew  out  a  handful  of 
polfl  from  his  pocket  witli  a  laugh  and  paid  at  once.  But  tlio 
omen  disquieted  him.  Who  wins'  to-day  may  lose  to-morrow. 
Clearly  the  hotel  at  least  had  thoroughly  learnt  that  simple 
kb^on. 

They  filed  in  among  *.he  first  at  tlio  doors  of  the  Casino. 
Once  started,  Hugh  played,  with  scarcely  an  intermission  li)r 
food,  till  the  tables  closed  again.  He  kept  himself  up  with 
champagne  and  sandwiches.  That  was  indeed  a  glorious  day! 
A  wild  success  attended  his  hazards.  Ho  staked  and  won ; 
staked  and  lost ;  staked  and  won ;  staked  and  lost  again.  But 
the  winnings  by  far  outbalanced  the  losses.  It  went  the  round 
of  the  tables,  in  frequent  whispers,  that  a  young  Englishman,  a 
poet  by  feature,  was  breaking  the  bank  with  his  audacious 
plunging.  He  plunged  again,  and  again  successfully.  People 
crowded  up  from  their  own  game  at  neighbouring  boards  to 
w  atch  and  imitate  the  too  lucky  Englishman.  "  Give  him  his 
head!  He's  in  the  vein!"  they  said.  "A  man  in  the  vein 
should  always  keep  playing  "  The  young  lady  with  the  fine 
Pennsylvunian  twang  remai  ..od  with  occidental  plainness  of 
speech  that  she  "wouldn't  object  to  running  a  partnership." 
Hugh  laughed  and  demurred. — "You  might  dilute  the  luck, 
you  know,"  he  answered  good-humouredly.  "But  if  you'll 
hand  me  aver  a  hundred  louis,  I  don't  mind  putting;  thera  on 
31  for  you."  He  did,  and  they  won.  The  crowd  of  gamblers 
applauded,  all  hushed,  with  their  usual  superstitious  awe  aitd 
veneration.  "He  has  the  run  of  the  numbers,"  they  said  in 
concert.  To  gamblers  generally,  fate  is  a  goddess,  a  living 
reality,  with  capricious  likes  and  dislikes  of  her  own.  They  are 
ever  ready  to  back  her  favourite  for  the  time  being ;  they  look 
uj^on  play  as  a  predestined  certainty. 

Eaffalevsky  meanwhile  lost  and  lost  with  equal  persistence. 
Ho  drank  as  much  champagne  as  Hugh;  but  the  wine  inspired 
no  lucky  guesses.  When  they  came  to  count  up  their  gains 
and  losses  at  the  end  of  the  day,  they  found  it  was  still  a  neck- 
and-neck  race,  in  opposite  ways,  between  them.  Hugh  had 
won  altogether  close  on  nine  thousand  pounds.  Eaffalevsky 
had  lost  rather  more  than  eight  thousand  five  hundred. 

"  Never  mind,"  Hugh  remarked  with  his  inexhaustible  buoy- 
ancy. "  We're  still  to  the  good  against  his  Monegasque  High- 
ness. There's  a  balance  of  something  like  five  hundred  pounds 
in  our  joint  favour.'* 

"In  other  words,"  Eaffalevsky  answered  with  a  grim  smile, 


■      •■■' 

f 

1 

^.-^^uS 

if 

♦i:       '' 

jli      f' 

>  ■ 

■  -^ 

wm 


ri' 


'j.'i 


330 


7777^  MORTAL  COIL, 


"  you've  won  all  my  money  and  some  other  fellow's  too.    You're 
the  sponge  that  sucks  up  all  my  lifehlood.    I've  got  barely 

three  thousand  five  hundred  left.    When  that  goes "  And 

he  repeated  once  more  the  same  expressive  suicidal  pantomime. 

That  night,  Hugh  slept  it  Monte  Carlo  once  more.  He  had 
lost  all  sense  of  shame  and  decency  now.  He  sent  off  a  note  for 
two  thousand  francs  to  the  people  at  the  pension^  just  as  a 
guarantee  of  good  faith — as  the  newspapers  say— and  to  let 
them  know  he  was  really  returning.  But  he  had  formed  a 
shadowy  plan  of  his  own  by  this  time.  He  would  wait  another 
day  at  the  Casino  and  go  home  to  San  Remo  with  Warren  Relf 
by  the  train  that  reached  there  at  6.39 — the  train  by  which 
Elsie  had  said  in  her  note  he  would  be  returning. 

Why  he  wished  to  do  so,  he  hardly  with  distinctness  knev 
himself.  Certainly  he  did  not  mean  to  pick  a  quarrel ;  he  only 
knew  in  a  vague  sort  of  way  he  was  going  by  that  train ;  and 
until  it  started,  he  would  keep  on  playing. 

And  lose  every  penny  he'd  won,  perhaps!  Why  not  leave  off 
at  once,  secure  of  his  eight  thousand?  Bah!  what  was  eight 
thousand  now  to  him  ?  He'd  win  a  round  twenty  before  he  left 
off— for  Elsie. 

So  he  played  next  day  from  morning  till  night ;  played,  and 
drank  champagne  feverishly.  Such  luck  had  never  been  known 
at  the  tables.  Old  players  stood  by  with  observant  faces  and 
admired  his  vein.  Was  ever  a  system  seen  like  his?  Such 
judgment,  they  said ;  such  restraint ;  such  coolness  I 

But  inwardly,  Hugh  was  consumed  all  day  by  a  devouring 
fire.  His  excitement  at  last  knew  no  bounds.  He  drank  cham- 
pagne by  the  glassful  to  keep  his  nerve  up.  He  had  won  before 
nightfall,  all  told,  no  less  a  sum  than  eleven  thousand  poauds 
sterling.  What  was  the  miserable  remnant  of  Whitestrand, 
now,  to  him !  Let  Whitestrand  sink  in  the  sea  for  all  he  cared 
for  it !  He  had  here  a  veritable  mine  of  wealth.  He  would  go 
back  to  San  Remo  to  bury  Winifred — and  return  to  heap  up  a 
giirantic  fortune. 

Eleven  thousand  pounds!  A  mere  bagatelie.  At  five  per 
cent,  five  hundred  and  fifty  a  year  only ! 

His  train  was  due  to  start  at  five.  About  four  o'clock,  Raffii- 
levsky  came  up  to  him  from  another  table.  The  Russian's  face 
was  white  as  death.  "  I've  lost  all,"  he  murmured  hoarsely, 
drawing  Hugh  aside.  "  The  whole,  the  whole,  my  three  hun- 
dred thousand  francs  of  borrowed  capital !— And  what's  worse 
still,  I  borrowed  it  from  the  chest — government  money — the 
treasury  of  the  squadron !  If  I  go  back  alive,  I  shall  be  court- 
martialed. — For  Heaven's  sake,  my  friend,  lend  mo  at  least  a  few 
hundred  francs  to  retrieve  my  luck  with  1 " 

Hugh  put  his  hand  to  his  pile  and  drew  out  three  notes  of  a 


r"  i  ' 


FORTUNE  OF  WAR, 


831 


and 


per 


thousand  francs  each — a  hundred  and  twenty  pounds  sterling 
in  all.  It  was  nothing,  nothing.  "  Good  luck  go  with  them/* 
he  cried  good-humouredly.  "When  those  are  gone,  my  dear 
fellow,  come  back  for  more.  I'm  not  the  man,  I  hope  and  trust, 
to  turn  my  back  upon  a  comrade  in  misfortune." 

The  Russian  snapped  at  them  with  a  grateful  gesture,  but 
without  hesitation  or  spoken  thanks,  and  returned  in  hot  ha-^te 
to  his  own  table.    Gamblers  have  little  time  for  needless  talking. 

At  a  qunrter  to  five,  after  a  last  hasty  draught  of  champagne 
at  the  buffet,  Hugh  turned  to  go  out,  with  his  cash  in  his 
pocket.  In  front  of  him  ho  saw  just  an  apparition  of  Raffa- 
levsky,  rushing  wildly  away  with  one  hand  upon  his  forehead. 
The  man's  face  was  awful  to  behold.  Hugh  felt  sure  the  Rus- 
sian had  lost  all  once  more,  and  been  too  much  ashamed  even 
to  renew  his  application. 

The  great  door  swung  slow  upon  its  hinges,  and  Raffalevsky 
burst  into  the  outer  corridor,  bowed  from  the  room  with  great 
dignity,  in  spite  of  his  frantic  haste,  by  a  well-liveried  attendant. 
There  is  plenty  of  obsequiousneiss  at  Monte  Carlo  for  every 
player,  even  if  he  has  lost  his  last  louis. 

They  emerged  once  more  upon  the  beautiful  terrace,  the 
glorious  view,  the  pencilled  palm-trees.  All  around,  the  sink- 
ing Italian  sun  lit  up  that  faiiy  coast  with  pink  and  purple. 
Bay  and  rock  and  mountain-side  showed  all  the  more  exquisite 
after  the  fetid  air  of  those  crowded  gaming  saloons.  High  up 
on  the  shoulders  of  the  inaccessible  Alps  the  great  square 
Roman  keep  of  Tnrbia  gazed  down  majestically  with  mute  con- 
tempt on  the  feverish  throng  of  miserable  idlers  who  poured  in 
and  out  +-''Ough  the  gaudy  portals  of  the  garish  Casino.  A 
serene  'light  pervaded  Hugh  Massinger's  placid  soul;  he  fdt 
himself  vastly  superior  to  these  human  butterflies ;  he  knew  his 
own  worth  as  he  turned  entranced  from  the  marble  steps  to  the 
beautiful  prospect  that  spread  everywhere  unrolled  like  a  pic- 
ture around  him.  Poet  as  he  was,  he  despised  mere  gamblers; 
and  he  carried  eleven  thousand  pounds  odd  of  winnings  in 
notes  in  his  pocket. 

R'r'r!  A  sharp  report !  Aery!  A  concourse!  Something 
uncanny  had  surely  happened.  People  were  running  up  where 
the  pistol  went  off.  Hugh  Massinger  turned  with  a  shudder  of 
disgust.  How  discomposing  I  The  usual  ugly  Monte  Carlo 
incident!  Raffalevsky  had  shot  himself  behind  the  shade  of 
the  palm-trees. 

The  man  was  lying,  a  hideous  mass,  in  a  crimson  pool  of  his 
own  blood,  prone  on  the  ground— hit  through  the  temple  with 
a  well-directed  bullet.  It  was  a  horrid  sight,  and  Hugh's 
nerves  were  sensitive.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  the  champagne,  he 
would  really  have  fainted.    Besides,  the  train  was  nearly  due.   If 


332 


TBIS  MORTAL   COIL 


you  hover  about  where  men  have  killed  themselves,  you're  liable 
to  be  let  in  for  whatever  may  happen  to  the  Monegasque  equiva- 
lent for  that  time-honoured  institution,  our  own  beloved  British 
coroner's  inquest.  He  might  be  hailed  as  a  witness.  Is  that 
law?  Ay,  marry,  is  it ?  Crowner's  quest  law!  Better  give  it 
all  a  wide  berth  at  once.  The  bell  was  ringing  for  the  train  below. 
With  a  sudden  shudder,  Hugh  hurried  away  from  the  ghastly 
object.  After  all,  he  had  done  his  best  to  save  him — lent  him 
or  given  him  three  thousand  francs  to  retrieve  his  losses.  It 
wais  none  of  his  fault.  If  one  man  wins,  another  man  loses  ! 
Luck,  luck,  the  mere  incalculable  chances  of  the  table!  If  their 
places  had  been  reversed,  would  that  morose,  unsociable,  ill- 
tempered  Russian  have  volunteered  to  give  him  three  thousand 
francs  to  throw  away,  he  wondered  ?  Never,  never :  'tvms  all 
for  the  best.  The  Russian  had  lost,  and  he  had  won — eleven 
thousand  pounds  odd,  for  Elsie. 

He  rushed  away  and  dashed  headlong  into  the  station.    His 
own  revolver  was  safe  in  his  pocket.    He  carried  eleven  thousand 

Sounds  odd  about  him.    No  man  should  rob  him  without  a  fight 
utween  here  and  San  Remo. 


CHAPTER  XL VIII. 


I' if; 

m 


AT  BAY. 

Honest  folk  give  lucky  winners  a  wide  berth  at  the  Casino 
railway  station,  lest  they  should  be  suspected  of  possible  evil 
designs  upon  their  newly  got  money.  Hugh  found,  therefore, 
he  could  pick  his  own  seat  quite  at  will,  for  nobody  seemed 
anxious  to  claim  the  dubious  honour  of  riding  alone  with  him. 
So  ha  strolled  along  the  train,  humming  a  gay  tune,  and  in- 
specting the  carriages  with  an  attentive  eye,  till  he  reached 
a  certain  first-class  compartment  not  far  from  the  front,  where 
a  single  passenger  was  quietly  seated.  The  single  passenger 
made  his  heart  throb;  for  it  was  Warren  Relf — alone  and 
unprotected. 

He  hardly  knew  why,  but,  flushed  with  wine  and  continued 
good  fortune,  he  meant  to  ride  back  in  that  very  carriage,  face 
to  face  with  the  baffled  and  defeated  serpent ;  for  Hugh  had. 
already  discounted  his  prospective  victory.  Warren  was  looking 
the  opposite  way,  and  did  not  perceive  him.  Hugh  waited, 
therefore,  till  the  train  was  just  about  to  start  from  the  station, 
and  then  he  jumped  in — too  late  for  Warren,  if  ho  would,  to 
change  his  carriage. 

In  a  second,  the  painter  turned  round  and  recognized  hie 


AT  BAT. 


333 


companion.  Ho  gave  a  sndden  start.  At  Inst  the  two  men  had 
met  in  earnest.  A  baleful  light  beamed  in  Hugh's  dark  eye. 
His  blood  was  np.  Ho  had  run  too  fast  through  the  whole 
diapason  of  passion.  Roulette  and  champagne,  love  and 
jealousy,  hatred  and  vindictiveness,  had  joined  together  to  fire 
and  inflame  his  heart.  He  was  at -white-heat  of  exultation  and 
excitement  now.  He  could  hardly  contain  his  savage  joy. 
"Have  I  found  thee,  0  my  enemy?"  he  cried  out,  half  aloud. 
Another  time,  it  was  just  the  opposite  way.  *'  Hast  thou  found 
me,  0  my  enemy?"  he  had  cried  to  Warren  with  an  agonized 
cry  at  their  last  meeting  in  the  club  in  London. 

Warren  Relf,  gazing  up  in  surprise,  answered  him  back  never 
a  word ;  he  only  thought  to  himself  silently  that  he  was  not  and 
had  never  been  Hugh  Massinger's  enemy.  From  the  bottom 
of  his  heart,  the  painter  pitied  him :  he  pitied  him  ten  thousand 
times  more  than  he  despised  him. 

They  stood  at  gaze  for  a  few  seconds.  Then,  **  Where  havo 
you  been  ?  "  Hugh  asked  at  last  insolently.  The  champagne  had 
put  him  almost  beside  himself.  Drunk  with  wine,  drunk  with 
good  fortune,  he  allowed  his  true  nature  to  peep  forth  for  once 
a  little  too  obviously.  He  would  make  this  fellow  Relf  know  his 
proper  place  before  gentlemen  at  last — a  mere  ignorant  upstart, 
half  way  between  a  painter  and  a  common  sailor. 

"  To  Paris,"  Warren  answered  with  curt  decision.  He  was 
in  no  humour  for  a  hasty  quarrel  to-day  with  this  half- 
drunken  madman. 

"What  for?"  Hugh  continued,  as  rudely  as  before.  Then 
he  added  with  a  loud  and  ugly  laugh :  "  You  need  tell  me 
no  lies.  I  know  already.  I've  found  you  out. — To  see  my 
cousin  Elsie  across  to  England." 

At  the  word,  Warren's  face  fell  somewhat  ominously.  He  leaned 
back,  half  irresolute,  in  the  corner  of  the  carriage  and  played 
with  twitching  fingers  at  the  leather  window-strop.  "  You  are 
right,"  he  answer-^d  low,  in  a  sliort  sharp  voice.  "I  never 
lie.    I  went  to  escort  Miss  Challoner  from  you  and  San  Remo." 

Hugh  flung  himself  into  an  attitude  of  careless  ease.  This 
colloquy  delighted  him.  He  had  the  fellow  at  bay.  Ho  began 
to  talk,  as  if  to  himself,  in  a  low  monologue.  "Heine  sa.ys 
somewhere,"  ho  observed  with  a  sardonic  smile,  directing  his 
observation  into  blank  space,  as  if  to  some  invisible  third 
pers'^  a,  "  that  he  would  wish  to  spend  the  evening  of  his  days 
in  a  cottage  by  the  sea,  within  sound  of  the  waves,  with  his 
wife  and  children  seated  around  him — and  a  large  tree  grow- 
ing just  outside  his  grounds,  from  whose  branches  might  dangle 
the  body  of  his  enemy." 

Warren  Relf  sat  still  in  constrained  silence.     For  Elsie's 
sake,  he  would  allow  no  quarrel  to  arise  with  this  madman, 
89 


i 


pi 
I 

In 


ti 


.,':i^^ 


334 


r///>S  MORTAL  COIL. 


flown  with  insolence  and  wine.  He  saw  at  once  what  harl 
happened:  Massinger  was  drunk  with  luck  and  cliampagno. 
But  he  would  avoid  the  consequences.  Ho  would  change  car- 
riages when  they  stopped  on  the  frontier  at  Ventimiglia. 

The  bid  for  an  angry  repartee  had  failed.  So  Hugh  triod 
again;  for  he  would  quarrel.  "A  great  many  murders  take 
place  on  this  h'ne,"  he  remarked  casually,  ouce  more  in  the  air, 
"It's  a  dangerous  thing,  they  tell  me,  for  a  winner  at  Monte 
Carlo  to  go  home  alone  in  a  carriage  by  himself  with  one  othor 
passenger." 

Still  Warren  Eelf  held  his  peace,  undrawn. 

Hugh  tried  a  third  time.  Ho  went  on  to  himself  in  a 
Trussing  monologue.  "  Any  man  who  travels  anywhere  by  train 
with  a  large  sum  of  money  about  his  person  is  naturally  ex- 
posed to  very  great  peril,"  he  said  slowly.  "  I've  lieen  to 
Monte  Carlo,  playing,  to-day,  and  I've  won  eleven  thousand 
pounds;  eleven — thousand — pounds — sterling.  I've  got  the 
money  now  about  me.  There  it  is,  you  see,  in  French  bank- 
notes. A  very  large  sum.  Eleven — thousand — pounds — 
sterling." 

Still  Warren  said  nothing,  biting  his  lip  hard,  but  with  an 
abstracted  air  looked  out  of  the  window.  Hugli  was  working 
himself  up  into  a  state  of  frantic  excitement  now,  though  well 
suppressed.  Fate  had  delivered  his  enemy  plump  into  his 
hands,  and  he  meant  to  make  the  very  best  use  of  his  splendid 
opportunity. 

"  A  fool  in  Paris  once  called  in  a  barber,"  he  went  on  quietly, 
with  a  studious  outer  air  of  calm  determination,  "  and  ordered 
him,  for  a  joke,  to  shave  him  at  once,  with  a  pistol  lying  before 
him  on  the  dressing-table.  *  If  your  hand  slips  and  you  cut  my 
skin,*  the  fool  said,  Til  blow  your  brains  out.'  To  his  sur- 
prise, the  barber  began  without  a  word  of  reply,  and  shaved 
him  clean  with  the  utmost  coolness.  When  he'd  finished,  the 
patient  paid  down  ten  pounds,  and  asked  the  fellow  how  he'd 
managed  to  keep  his  hand  from  trembling.  *0h,*  said  the 
barber,  *  easy  enough :  it  didn't  matter  the  least  in  the  world 
to  me.  I  thought  you  were  mad.  If  my  hand  had  slipped, 
I  knew  what  to  do:  I'd  have  cut  your  throat  without  one 
moment's  hesitation,  before  you  had  time  to  reach  out  for  your 
pistol.  I'd  say  it  was  an  accident ;  and  any  jury  in  all  Paris 
would  without  a  doubt  at  once  have  acquitted  me.' — The  store's 
illustrative.    I  hope,  Mr.  Relf,  you  see  its  applicability  ?  " 

•*  I  do  not,"  Warren  answered,  surprised  at  last  into  answer- 
ing back,  and  with  an  uneasy  feeling  that  Massinger  was 
developing  dangerous  lunacy.  "But  I  must  beg  you  will  have 
the  goodness  not  to  address  your  conversation  to  me  any 
further." 


f 


AT  BAY. 


335 


"  The  application  of  my  remark,"  Hugh  went  on  to  himself, 
groping  with  his  hand  in  his  pocket  for  his  revolver,  and  with- 
drawing it  again  as  soon  as  he  felt  quite  reassured  that  the 
deadly  weapon  was  safely  there,  "  ought  at  once  to  be  obvious 
to  the  meanest  understanding.  There  are  some  occasions  where 
homicide  is  so  natural  that  everybody  jumps  at  once  to  a  par- 
ticular conclusion. — Observe  my  argument.  It  concerns  you 
closely. — ^Many  murders  have  taken  place  on  this  line — murders 
of  heavy  winners  at  Monte  Carlo.  Many  travellers  have  com- 
mitted murderous  assaults  on  the  persons  of  winners  with  large 
sums  of  money  about  them. — Now  follow  me  closely.  I  give 
you  fair  warning. — If  a  winner  with  eleven  thousand  pounds  in 
liis  pocket  were  to  get  by  accident  into  a  carriage  with  one  other 
l)erson,  and  a  quarrel  were  by  chance  to  arise  between  them, 
and  the  winner  in  self-defence  were  to  fire  at  and  kill  that  other 
person— do  you  think  any  jury  in  all  the  world  would  convict 
him  for  protecting  his  life  from  the  aa;gressor?  No,  indeed, 
my  good  sir !  In  such  a  case,  the  other  person's  life  would  be 
wholly  at  the  offended  winner's  mercy. — Do  you  follow  my 
thought  ?  B J  you  understand  me  now  ? — Aha,  I  expected  so  I 
Warren  Keif,  I've  got  you  in  my  power.  I  can  shojt  you  like 
a  dog ;  I  can  do  as  I  like  with  you." 

With  a  sudden  start,  Warren  Relf  woke  up  all  at  once  to  a 
consciousness  of  the  real  and  near  danger  that  thus  unexpectedly 
and  closely  confronted  him.  It  was  all  true;  and  all  possible! 
Hugh  was  mad — or  maddened  at  least  with  play  and  drink :  he 
deliberately  meant  to  take  his  enemy's  life,  and  trust  to  the 
authorities  accepting  his  plausible  story  that  he  was  forced  to 
do  so  in  self-defence  or  in  defence  of  his  money. 

"  You  blackguard ! "  the  painter  cried  as  the  truth  came  hotne 
to  him  in  all  its  naked  ugliness,  facing  Hugh  in  his  righteous 
indignation  like  a  lion.  "How  dare  you  venture  on  such  a 
cowardly  scheme?  How  dare  you  concoct  such  a  vile  plot? 
How  dare  you  confess  to  mo  you  mean  to  put  it  into  execution?" 

"i'm  a  gentleman,"  Hugh  answered,  smiling  across  at  him 
still  with  a  hideous  smiie  of  pure  drunken  devilry,  and  linger- 
ing once  more  the  revolver  in  his  pocket.  "I'll  shoot  no  man 
without  duo  explanation  and  reason  given.  I'll  tell  you  why. 
You've  tried  to  keep  Elsie  out  of  my  v/ay  all  these  long  years 
for  your  own  vile  and  designing  purposes — to  beguile  and  entrap 
that  innocent  girl  into  marrying  you  —such  a  creature  as  you  are ; 
and  by  your  base  machinations  you've  succeeded  at  last  in  gain- 
ing her  consent  to  your  wretched  advances.  How  she  was  so 
lost  to  all  sense  of  shame  and  self-respect — she,  a  Massinger  on 
her  mother's  side — as  to  give  her  consent  to  such  a  degrading 
engagement,  I  can't  imagine.  But  you  extorted  it  somehow — 
by  alternate  threats  and  cringing,  I  suppose— by  scolding  her 


336 


THIS  MORTAL  COIL. 


\] 


i 


h.\ 


M 


and  cajoling  her— by  lies  and  by  slanders — by  frightening  her 
and  libelling  me — till  the  poor  terrified  girl,  tortured  out  of 
her  wits,  decided  to  accept  you,  at  last,  out  of  pure  weariness. 
A  Man  would  be  ashamed,  I  say,  to  act  as  you  have  done ;  but 
a  Thing  like  you— -^ah — there — it  revolts  me  even  to  talk  to 
youl". 

Warren  Eelf's  face  was  livid  crimson  with  fiery  indignation ; 
but  he  would  not  do  this  drunken  madman  the  honour  of  contra- 
dicting or  arguinoj  with  him.  Elsie  to  him  was  far  too  sacred 
and  holy  a  subject  to  brawl  over  with  a  half- tipsy  fool  in  a 
public  conveyance.  He  clutched  his  hands  hard  and  kept  his 
temper ;  he  preferred  to  sit  still  and  take  no  outer  notice. 

Hugh  mistook  his  enforced  calm  for  cowardice  and  panic. 
"  Aha !  **  he  cried  again,  "  so  you  see,  my  fine  friend,  you've 
been  found  out  I  You've  been  exposed  and  discredited.  You've 
got  no  defence  for  your  mean  secretiveness.  Going  and  hiding 
away  a  poor  territled,  friendless,  homeless  girl  from  her  ouly 
relations  and  natural  protectors — working  upon  her  feelings  by 
your  base  vile  tricks — sotting  your  own  wretched  womankind  to 
bully  and  badger  her  by  day  and  by  night,  till  she  gives  her  con- 
sent at  last — out  of  pure  disgust  and  weariness,  no  doubt — to  your 
miserable  proposals.  The  sin  and  the  shame  of  it!  But  you 
forgot  you  had  a  Man  to  deal  with  as  well  I  You're  brought  to 
book  now.  I've  found,  you  out  in  the  nick  of  time,  and  I  mean 
to  take  the  natural  and  proper  advantage  of  my  fortunate  dis- 
covery. Listen  here  1;o  me,  now,  you  infernal  sneak :  before  I 
shoot  you,  I.propose  to  make  you  know  my  plans.  I  shall  have 
my  legitimate  triumph  out  of  you  first.  I  shall  tell  you  all  ^  and 
then,  you  coward  —I'll  shoot  you  like  a  dog,  and  nobody  on  earth 
will  ever  be  one  penny  the  wiser." 

Warren  saw  the  man  had  fairly  reached  the  final  stage  of 
dangerous  lunacy.  He  was  simply  raving  with  success  and 
excitement.  His  blood  was  up,  and  he  meant  murder.  But 
the  painter  fortunately  kept  his  head  cool.  He  didn't  attempt 
to  disarm  or  disable  him  as  yet;  he  waited  to  see  whether 
Hugh  had  or  had  not  a  pistol  in  his  pocket.  Perhaps  Hugh, 
with  still  deeper  cunning,  was  only  trying  to  egg  him  on  into 
a  vain  quarrel,  that  he  might  disgrace  him  in  the  end  by  a 
horribly  plausible  and  vindictive  charge  of  attempted  robbery. 

"I've  won  eleven  thousand  pounds,"  Hugh  went  on  dis- 
tinctly, with  marked  emphasis,  in  short  sharp  sentences.  "  My 
wife's  dead,  and  I've  inherited  Whitestrand.  I  mean  to  marry 
Elsie  Challoner.  I  can  keep  her  now  as  she  ought  to  be  kept ; 
I  can  make  her  the  wife  of  a  man  of  property.  You  alone 
stand  in  my  way.  And  I  mean  to  shoot  you,  just  to  get  rid, 
of  you  oflfhand. — Sit  still  there  and  listen :  don't  budge  an  inch 
pr,  by  Heaven,  I'll  fire  at  once  and  blow  your  braint  out.    Lift 


THE  UNFORESEEN. 


337 


hand  or  foot  and  you're  a  dead  man. — Wavren  Eelf,  I  mean 
to  shoot  you.  No  good  praying  and  cringing  for  yonr  life,  liko 
the  coward  that  you  are,  for  I  won't  listen.  Even  if  you  were 
to  renounce  your  miserable  claim  to  my  Elsie  this  moment,  I 
wouldn't  spare  you ;  I'd  shoot  yqu  still.  You  shall  be  punished 
for  your  presumption — a  creature  like  you ;  and  wlien  you're 
dead  and  buried,  I  shall  marry  Elsie. — Think  of  me,  you  cring- 
ing miserable  cur — when  you're  dead  and  gone,  enjoying  myself 
for  ever  with  Elsie. — Yes,  I  mean  to  make  you  drink  it,  down  to 
the  very  dregs.  Hear  me  out.  You  shall  die  like  a  dog ;  and 
I  shall  marry  Elsie." 

Warren  Relf's  eye  was  fixed  upon  him  hard,  watching  him 
close,  as  a  cat  watches,  ready  to  spring,  by  an  open  mouse- 
hole.  This  dangerous  madman  must  be  disarmed  at  all  hazards, 
the  moment  he  showed  his  deadly  weapon.  For  Elsie's  sake,  ha 
would  gladly  have  spared  him  that  final  exposure.  But  the  man, 
in  his  insolent  drunken  bravado,  made  parley  useless  and  mercy 
impossible.  It  was  a  life-and-death  struggle  between  them  now. 
Warren  must  disarm  him ;  nothing  else  was  feasible. 

As  he  watched  and  waited,  Hugh  dived  with  his  hand  into  his 
pocket  for  his  revolver,  and  drew  it  forth,  exultant,  with  maniac 
eagerness.  For  a  single  second,  he  brandished  it,  loaded,  in 
Warren's  face,  laughing  aloud  in  his  drunken  joy;  then  he 
pointed  it  straight  with  deadly  resolve  at  the  painter's  forehead. 


CHAPTER  XLIX. 

* 

THE   UNFORESEEN. 

Quick  as  lightning,  Eelf  leaped  upon  his  frantic  assailant,  and 
with  one  powerful  arm,  stilfened  like  an  iron  bar,  daslied  down 
the  upraised  hand,  and  the  revolver  in  its  grasp,  with  all  his 
might,  toward  the  floor  of  the  carriage.  A  desperate  struggle 
ensued  in  that  narrow  compartment.  The  two  men,  indeed, 
were  just  evenly  matched.  Warren  Eelf,  strong  from  his 
yachting  experience,  with  sinewy  lirabs  much  exercised  by 
constant  outdoor  occupation,  fought  hard  in  sheer  force  of 
thew  and  muscle,  with  the  consciousness  that  therein  lay  his 
one  chance  of  saving  Elsie  from  still  further  misery.  Hugh 
Massinger,  on  the  other  hand,  well  knit  and  wiry,  now  mad 
with  mingled  excitement  and  drink,  grappled  wildly  with  his 
adversary  in  the  fierce  strength  of  pure  adventitious  nervous 
energy.  The  man's  whole  being  seemed  to  pour  itself  forth 
with  a  rush  in  one  frantic  outburst  of  insane  vigour.  He 
gripped  the  revolver  with  his  utmost  force,  and  endeavoured 


338 


THIS  MORTAL  COIL. 


m\ 


to  wronoh  it,  in  Bpite  of  Warren's  strong  hand,  from  his  enemy's 
grasp,  and  to  tnrn  it  by  sheer  power  of  wrist  and  arm  once  more 
upon  Elsie's  new  lover.  "  Blackguard  1 "  he  cried,  through  his 
clenched  teeth,  as  he  fought  tooth  and  nail  with  frenzied 
struggles  against  his  powerful  opponent.  "  You  shan't  get  oflf. 
You  shall  never  have  her.  If  I  hang  for  you  now,  I'll  kill  you 
where  you  stand.  I've  always  hated  you.  And  in  the  end  1 
mean  to  do  for  you." 

With  a  terrible  eflfiirt,  Warren  wrested  the  loaded  revolver  at 
last  from  his  trembling  hands.  Hugh  battled  for  it  savagely 
like  a  wild  beast  in  a  life-and-death  struggle.  Every  chamber 
had  a  cartridge  jammed  home  in  its  recess.  To  fight  for  the 
deadly  weapon  would  be  downright  madness.  If  it  went  off  by 
accident  somebody  would  be  wounded ;  the  ball  might  even  po 
through  the  woodwork  into  the  adjoining  compartments.  With- 
out one  moment's  hesitation  Warren  raised  the  fatal  thing  aloft 
in  his  hand  high  above  his  head.  The  window  on  the  seaward 
side  was  luckily  open.  As  he  swung  it,  Hugh  leaped  up  once 
more  and  tried  to  snatch  the  loaded  pistol  afresh  from  his 
opponent's  fingers;  but  the  painter  was  too  quick  for  him; 
before  he  could  drag  down  that  uplifted  arm  with  his  whole 
weight  flung  upon  the  iron  biceps,  Warren  Eelf  had  whirled  the 
disputed  prize  round  his  head  and  flung  it  in  an  arch  far  out  to 
sea  through  the  open  window.  The  railway  runs  on  a  ledge  of 
rock  overhanging  the  bay.  It  fell  with  a  splash  into  the  deep 
blue  water.  Hugh  Massinger,  thus  helplessly  balked  for  tlie 
moment  of  his  expected  reveuge,  sprang  madly  on  his  foe  in  a 
wild  assault,  with  teeth  and  naily  and  throttling  fingers,  as  a 
wounded  tiger  springs  in  its  vindictive  death-throes  ou  the 
broad  flanks  of  an  infuriated  elepliant. 

Next  instant,  they  were  plunged  in  the  deep  arch  of  a  tunnel, 
and  continued  their  horrible  hand-to-hand  battle  for  several 
minutes  in  utter  darkness.  Eolling  and  grappling  in  the 
gloom  together,  they  rose  and  fell,  now  one  man  on  top  and 
now  the  other,  round  after  round,  like  a  couple  of  angry 
wrestlers.  The  train  rushed  out  into  the  light  once  more  and 
plunged  a  second  time  into  a  still  blacker  tunnel.  But  still 
they  fought  and  tore  one  another  fiercely.  All  the  way  from 
Monte  Carlo  to  the  frontier,  indeed,  the  line  alternates  between 
bold  ledges  that  just  overhang  the  deep  blue  bays  and  tunnels 
that  pierce  with  tlieir  dark  archways  the  intervening  headlands. 
When  they  emerged  a  second  tine  upon  the  light  of  day,  Hugh 
Massinger  had  his  hands  tight  pressed  in  a  convulsive  grasp 
upon  Warren  Eelf 's  throat ;  and  Warren  Eelf,  purple  and  black 
in  the  face,  was  tearing  them  away  with  horrible  contortions  of 
arms  and  legs,  and  striving  to  defend  himself  by  brute  forcd 
from  the  would-be  murderer's  close-gripped  clutches. 


THE  UNFORESEEN. 


339 


"  Aha  1 "  Hugh  cried,  as  he  held  his  enemy  down  on  the  seat 
•with  a  gurgle  in  h.is  throat,  "  I  have  you  now !  I've  got  you ; 
I've  done  for  you.  You  shall  choke  for  your  insolence  1  You 
shall  choke — you  shall  choke  for  it." 

With  an  awful  ra'ly  for  dear  life,  Warren  Belf  leaped  up  and 
turned  the  tables  once  more  upon  his  overspent  opponent. 
Seizing  Hugh  round  the  waist  in  his  powerful  arms,  in  an 
access  of  despair,  he  flung  him  from  him  as  one  might  fling  a 
child,  with  all  his  store  of  gathered  energy.    If  only  he  could 
hold  the  man  at  bay  till  they  reached  Mentone,  lielp  would  como 
— the  porters  would  ste  and  would  try  to  secure  him.    He  had 
no  time  to  think  in  the  hurry  oi  the  moment  that  even  so  all 
the  world  would  believe  he  himself  was  the  aggressor,  and 
Hugh  Massingor,  with  that  great  roll  of  notes  stowed  away  in 
liis  pocket,  was  the  injured  innocent.     Fighting  instinctively 
for  life  alone,  he  flung  his  mad  assailant  right  across  the 
carriage  with   his  utmost    force.     Hugh  staggered  and  fell 
against  the  door  of  the  compartment;  his  head  struck  sharp 
against  the  inner  brass  handle.    With  a  loud  cry,  the  would-be 
murderer  dropped  helpless  on  the  floor.    Warren  saw  his  temple 
was  bleeding  profusely.    He  seemed  quite  stunned — stunned  or 
dead?    His  face,  which  but  a  moment  before  had  glowed  livid 
red,  grew  pale  as  death  with  a  horrible  suddenness.    Warren 
?caned  over  him,  flushed  with  excitement,  and  hot  with  that 
leirible  wild-beast-like  struggle.     Was  the  man  feigning,  or 
was  he  really  killed  ? — 0  heaven?,  would  tiiey  say  he,  Warren, 
had  murdered  him  ? 
In  a  moment  the  full  horror  of  the  situation  came  over  him. 
He  felt  Hugh's  pulse:  it  was  scarcely  beating.    He  peered 
into  his  eyes:  they  were  glazed  and  senseless.    He  couldn't 
tell  if  the  man  were  dead  or  alive;  but  he  stood  aghast  now 
with  equal  awe  at  either  horrible  and  unspeakable  predicament. 
Only  four  minutes  or  so  more  till  Mentone  I     What  time  to 
decide  how  to  act  in  the  interval?     0  dear  heaven,  those 
accusing,  tell-tale  bank-notes!    Those  lying  bank-notes,  with 
their  mute  false  witness  against  his  real  intentions  1    If  Hugh 
was  dead,  who  would  ever  believe  he  had  not  tried  to  rob  and 
murder  him?     Whatever  came  of  it,  he  must  try  to  recover 
Hugh  from  his  dead-faint  at  all  hazards.    Water,  water!    Oh, 
what  would  he  not  give  for  one  glass  of  water !    He  essayed  to 
bind  up  the  wound  on  the  head  with  his  own  handkerchief. 
It  was  all  of  no  avail :  the  wound  went  bleeding  steadily  on. 
It  went  bleeding  on;  that  looked  as  though  Hugh  were  still 
alive.    For  if  Hugh  was  dead,  they  would  take  him  for  a 
murderer ! 

Four  minutes  only  till  they  reached  Mentone ;  but  oh,  what 
an  eternity  of  doubt  and  terror!    In  one  single  vivid  panoramio 


840 


TniS  MORTAL   COTL, 


11 


H 


picture,  the  whole  awfulncss  of  his  situation  burst  full  upon 
him.  He  saw  it  all— all,  just  as  it  would  happen.  What  other 
interpretation  could  the  outside  world  by  any  possibility  set 
upon  the  circumstances  ?  A  winner  at  Monte  Carlo,  returning 
home  to  San  Eemo  with  a  vast  sura  in  bank-notes  concealed 
about  his  person,  gets  into  a  carriage  alone  with  a  fellow- 
countryman  of  his  acquaintance,  to  whom  he  would  naturally 
at  once  confide  the  fact  of  his  luck  and  his  largo  winnings.  He 
is  found  dead  or  dying  in  the  train  at  the  next  station,  his  coat 
torn  after  a  frantic  struggle,  and  the  carriage  bearing  every 
possible  sign  of  a  desperate  tight  for  life  between  aggressor  and 
def(;nder.  His  revolver  gone,  his  head  broken,  his  arms  black 
with  numerous  bruises,  who  could  doubt  that  he  had  fought 
hard  for  his  life  and  his  money,  and  succimibed  at  last  by  slow 
degrees  to  the  most  brutal  violence  ?  Who  would  ever  believe 
the  cock-and-bull  story  which  alone  Wiirren  Eclf  could  set  up 
in  self-justificati(m':'  How  absurd  to  pretend  that  the  man 
with  the  money  was  the  real  aggressor,  and  that  the  man  with 
none  acted  only  in  pure  self-defence,  without  the  sliglitest  in- 
tention of  seriously  injuring  his  wild  assailant  I  An  accident, 
indeed  I  No  jury  on  earth  would  accept  such  an  incredible  line 
of  defence.  It  was  palpably  past  all  reasonable  belief— to  any 
one  but  himself  and  Hugh  Massinger — on  the  very  face  of  it. 

And  then,  a  still  more  ghastly  scene  rose  clear  before  his  eyes, 
with  the  vividness  and  rapidity  of  a  great  crisis.  At  such 
supreme  moments,  indeed,  we  do  not  think  in  words  or  logical 
phrases  at  all ;  we  see  things  unrolled  in  vast  perspective  as  a 
living  tableau  of  events  before  us;  we  feel  and  realize  past, 
present,  and  future  in  incredible  lightning-like  flashes  and 
whirls  of  some  internal  sense :  our  consciousness  ceases  to  be 
bound  and  cabined  by  the  narrow  limits  of  space  and  time :  a 
single  second  suflfices  for  us  to  know  and  recognize  at  a  glance 
what  in  other  phases  it  would  take  us  a  whole  hour  deliberately 
to  represent  by  analytic  stages  to  our  mental  vision.  Warren 
Keif,  alone  in  that  cramped  compartment  with  Hugh  Massinger, 
or  Hugh  Massinger's  corpse — he  knew  not  whicli — buheld  in  his 
mind's  eye  in  a  graphic  picture  a  court  of  justice,  installed  and 
inaugurated:  advocates  pleading  his  case  in  vain:  a  juge 
d'instriiction  cross-questioning  him  mercilessly  with  French 
persistence  on  every  detail  of  the  supposed  assault :  a  jury  of 
stolid  bourgeois  listening  with  suturuine  incredulity  in  every 
line  of  their  faces  to  his  improbable  explanations — a  delay — a 
verdict — a  sentence  of  death :  and  behind  all — ^Elsie,  Elsie,  Elsie, 
Elsie. 

Therein  lay  the  bitterest  sting  of  the  whole  tragedy.  That 
Elsie  should  ever  come  to  know  he  had  been  forced  by  circum- 
stauceSj  however  imperious^  into  laying  violent  hands  on  Uugli 


THE  UNFOIiESEEN. 


341 


Mappincor,  Tvas  in  itsolf  more  than  liis  native  onnanimity  conld 
possibly  endure.  Wlmt  would  Elsio  sny?  Tliut  was  liia  ono 
distinct  personal  tlionpht.  How  ronld  lie  ever  brinf*  himself 
even  to  explain  tho  slmplo  truth  to  her?  He  shrank  from  tho 
idea  with  a  deadly  loathinp:.  She  must  never  know  Jlu'j;h  had 
tried  to  murder  him— and  for  her  as  the  prize.  She  must  never 
know  he  had  been  compelled  in  self-defence  to  flin^  Hu^h  from 
his  throat,  and  unwillingly  to  inflict  tliat  awful  wound — lor 
death  or  otherwise — upon  his  bleeding  forehead. 

Three  minutes,  perhaps,  to  Montonn  still.  On  those  three 
minutes  hunf:;  all  his  future — and  Elsie's  happiness. 

In  the  midst  of  the  confused  sea  of  inin^cs  Ihat  snrfrod  up  in 
endless  waves  upon  his  mind,  one  definite  thou|»ht  ahme  now 
plainly  shaped  itself  in  clear-cut  mental  outline  before  him. 
He  must  save  Elsie — he  must  save  Klsie:  at  all  hazards,  no 
matter  how  great — let  him  live  or  die — ho  must  save  Elsie. 
Throuc;h  tho  mist  of  horror  and  apony  and  despair  that  dimmed 
his  sight,  that  thought  alone  loomed  clear  and  certain.  Save 
Elsie  the  anguish  of  that  awful  discovery:  save  E'sio  the  in- 
expressible pain  of  knowing  that  the  man  sh(!  now  loved  and 
tho  man  who  once  pretended  to  love  her,  had  closed  together  in 
deadly  conflict,  and  thatAVarren  had  only  preserved  Hugh  from 
a  murderer's  guilt  by  himself  becoming,  in  a  moment  of  despair, 
perhaps  Hugh's  unwilling  and  unwitting  executioner. 

Ho  glanced  once  more  at  tho  senseless  mass  that  lay  hud-lled 
in  blood  upon  tho  floor  of  the  carriage.  Alive  or  dead  '?  ^Vllat 
hope  of  recovery?  What  chance  of  restitution?  What  room 
for  repentance?  If  Hugh  lived,  would  he  char  Warren?  or 
would  he  die  in  some  hospital  with  a  lie  on  his  lips,  ccmdemning 
his  enemy  for  the  very  assault  ho  had  liimself  so  madly  yet 
deliberately  committed?  What  matter  to  Warren?  Whichever 
way  things  happened  to  turn,  the  pain  would  be  almost  the  some 
for  Klsie.  Concealment  was  now  the  only  ipossibio  plan.  He 
must  conceal  it  all — all,  all,  from  Elsie. 

The  train  was  slowing  round  a  dangerous  curve — a  curve 
where  the  line  makes  a  sliarj)  angle  round  a  projecting  point— a 
triumph  of  engineering,  exjjerts  consider  it — with  the  sheer 
rock,  rising  straight  above,  and  the  l;)lue  sea  dimpling  itstslf  into 
ripples  below.  He  moved  to  the  door,  and  gazed  anxiously  out. 
1^0  room  to  jump  just  there  ;  the  rock  and  sea  hemmed  him  in 
too  closely.  But  beyond,  by  the  torrent,  a  loose  bank  of  earth 
on  the  further  side  might  break  his  fall,  if  he  chose  to  risk  it. 
Madness,  no  doubt,  ay,  almost  suicide ;  but  with  only  tw^o 
minutes  more  to  Mentone,  ho  had  no  timo  to  think  if  it  wero 
madness  or  wisdom :  time  only  to  net,  to  act  for  the  best,  on 
tlie  spur  of  tho  moment,  while  action  of  some  sort  still  was 
possible.    At  such  times,  indeed,  men  do    not  reason:  they 


fi 


l! 


'f;^ 


:|:  \ 


! 


1 1 1 

■    j! 


PI  M 
d :  j 
I 


342 


THIS  MORTAL    COIL 


follow  oi>ly  tlio  Ktron^'ost  and  docpost  inipnlso.  Wnrron  Pelf 
did  not  wait  to  arj^iio  out  tlio  results  of  lii.s  conduct  with  liini- 
sclf.  If  ho  leaped  from  the  train,  ho  ninst  almost  certainly  bo 
stunned  or  maimed,  perhaps  even  killed  outright  by  tho  con- 
cussion. At  best,  he  must  soon  bo  taken  by  the  myrmidons  of 
justice  and  accused  of  tiie  murder.  To  ^ct  away  nnperceived, 
along  that  single  track  of  open  coast,  bucked  up  in  tho  rear  by 
high  mountains,  was  simply  impossiblo.  Had  he  stopped  to 
reason,  ho  might  have  remained  whore  lie  was — and  lost  all. 
But  he  did  not  stop  to  reason ;  he  only  felt,  and  felt  profoundly. 
His  instincts  urged  him  to  leap  while  there  was  still  tiino.  lie 
opened  tho  door  as  ho  reached  the  torrent,  and  h)()king  out 
ni)on  the  bank  with  cautious  deliberation,  prepared  to  jump  for 
it  at  the  proper  moment. 

Tho  train  was  slowing  much  more  distinctly  now.  Ho 
thought  tiie  brake  must  be  put  on  hard.  Ho  could  surely 
jnmp  as  ho  reached  tho  corner  without  serious  danger.  He 
stepiied  with  one  foot  on  to  tho  open  footboard.  It  wasn't 
much  to  risk  fjr  Klsie.  A  single  plunge,  and  all  would  be 
Bcttlcd. 


CHAPTER  L. 

TJIK   CAP   MARTIN   -JATASTROrnB. 

As  he  paused  there  one  second,  before  he  jump  d,  he  was  dimly 
a'vare  of  a  curious  fact  tha^  rnnglit  his  attention,  sideways, even 
at  tlukt  special  monient  af  doubt  and  danger:  many  other  doors 
on  the  land"'ard  side  of  the  train  stood  also  open,  and  otlicr 
passengers  beside  himsc)!',  with  fc  .rand  surprise  depicted  visibly 
on  their  pale  faces,  were  steppmg  out,  irresolute,  just  as  ho  him- 
self had  done,  upon  the  narrow  footboard.  Could  tiiey  have 
heard  the  struggle?  he  wondered  vaguely  to  himself.  Could 
they  have  gained  some  hasty  inkling  of  the  tragic  event  that  had 
taken  place,  so  secretly,  all  unknown  as  he  supposed,  in  his  own 
compartment  ?  Had  some  neighbouring  traveller  caught  faintly 
the  muflfled  sounds  of  a  desperate  fight  V  Had  ho  suspected  an 
attack  upon  some  iimocent  passenger?  Had  he  signalled  the 
guard  to  stop  tiie  train?  for  it  was  slowing  sail,  slowing  yet 
more  sensibly  and  certainly  each  moment.  More  and  more  pale 
faces  now  appeared  at  the  doors;  and  a  Fronc.  aian  "ta,nding  on 
the  footboard  of  the  next  compartment,  a  lurly  person  of  military 
appearance,  with  fn  authoritativo  air,  cried  aloud  in  a  voice 
of  quick  commruvl,  "Sautez,  done!  Sautcz!"  At  the  word, 
Warren  leaped,  lie  knew  not  why,  froiii  the  doomed  carriage. 


THE  CAP  MARTIN  CATASTUOPIIE. 


818 


Tlic  Frcuclmiiin  leaped  at  tlio  pclf-satno  nionicnt.  All  down  llio 
train,  a  dozen  or  two  of  puRsoiigers  followed  suit  as  if  by  a  con- 
certed order.  Warron  had  no  id(3a  in  his  own  mind  what  was 
really  ha])i)oiiinp,  but  he  knew  the  train  had  slackenod  Binned 
immensely,  and  that  no  had  landed  on  his  feet  and  hands  on  the 
rubbly  bank  with  no  more  resnlt,  po  fur  as  ho  himsolf  could  k(  o 
just  then,  than  a  si)rained  ankle  and  isome  few  bleeding  wounds 
on  his  knees  and  elbows. 

Next  instant  a  horrible  crash  resounded  throup;h  the  air,  and 
bellcwed  and  echoed  with  loud  reverberation  from  the  rocky 
walls  of  those  sheer  precii)iccs.  Thud,  tliud,  thud  followed  closo 
on  the  crash,  as  carria^ci  after  carriage  shocked  fiercely  against 
the  engine  and  the  compartments  in  front  of  it.  Tlien  a  terrible 
sight  mot  his  eyes.  The  train  had  just  reached  the  ledge  of  cliff 
beyond,  and  with  a  wild  rocking  disappeared  all  at  once  over  tlio 
steep  side  into  the  sea  below.  Nothing  in  life  is  more  awful 
in  its  unexpectedness  than  a  great  railway  accident.  Before 
Warren  had  even  time  to  know  what  was  taking  place  by  his 
side,  it  was  all  over.  The  train  had  fallen  in  one  huge  mass 
over  the  edge  of  the  clifT,  and  Hugh  Massinger,  with  his  eleven 
thousand  pounds  safe  iu  his  pocket,  was  hurried  away  without 
warning  or  reprieve  into  ten  fathoms  deep  of  blue  Mediterranean. 

Everybody  remembers  the  main  features  of  that  territio 
accident,  famous  in  the  history  of  French  railway  dit^asters  as 
the  Cap  Martin  catastrophe.  Shortly  after  passing  l{o(iuebruno 
station  (where  the  tlirough-trains  do  not  stop),  one  of  the  engine- 
wheels  became  loosened  by  a  violent  shock  against  a  badly-laid 
sleeper,  and,  thus  acting  as  a  natural  brake,  brought  tlie  train 
almost  to  a  stand-still  for  a  few  seconds,  just  ojjposite  the  very 
dangerous  ledge  known  locally  as  the  Borrigo  escarpment.  The 
engine  there  loft  the  rails  with  a  jerk,  and  many  of  the  pas- 
sengers, seeing  something  serious  was  likely  to  take  place,  seized 
the  opportunity,  just  before  the  crash,  of  opening  the  doors  on 
the  landward  side,  and  leaping  from  the  train  while  it  had  reached 
its  slowest  rate  of  motion,  on  the  very  eve  of  its  final  disaster. 
One  instant  later,  the  engine  oscillated  violently  and  stopped 
altogether;  the  other  carriages  telescoped  against  it;  and  the 
entire  train,  thrown  off  its  balance  with  a  terrible  wrench, 
toppled  over  the  sheer  precipice  at  the  side  into  the  deep  water 
that  skirts  the  foot  of  the  neighbouring  raouniains.  Tliat  was 
the  whole  familiar  story  as  the  public  at  largo  came,  bit  by  bit, 
to  learn  it  afterwards.  But  for  the  moment,  the  stunned  and 
horrified  passengers  on  the  bank  of  the  torrent  only  knew  that  a 
frightful  accident  had  taken  i»lace  with  incredible  rapidity,  and 
that  the  train  itself,  with  many  of  their  fellow-travellers  seated 
within,  had  sunk  like  lead  in  the  twinkling  of  an  oyo  to  the 
bottom  of  the  bay,  leaving  the  few  survivors  there  on  dry  laud 


in»W.lif,l 


i|l 


344 


THIS  MORTAL  COIL, 


agliast  at  the  inexpressible  sucldennesa  and  awfulness  of  this 
appalling  calamity. 

As  for  Warren  Relf,  amid  the  horror  of  his  absorbing  life-and- 
dcath  fitruggle  with  Hugh  Massinger,  and  the  abiding  awe  of  its 
terrible  consummation,  he  had  never  even  noticed  the  angry 
jerking  of  the  loosened  wheel,  the  whirr  that  jarred  through  the 
shaken  carriages,  the  growing  oscillation  from  side  to  side,  the 
evident  imminence  of  some  alarming  accident.  Sudden  as 
the  catastrophe  was  to  all,  to  him  it  was  more  sudden  and 
unexpected  tiian  to  any  one.  Till  the  actual  crash  itself  came, 
indeed,  he  did  not  realize  why  the  other  passengers  were  hanging 
on  so  strangely  to  the  narrow  footboard.  The  whole  episode 
hiipjiened  in  so  short  a  space  of  time — thirty  seconds  at  best — 
tluit  he  had  no  opportunity  to  collect  and  recover  his  scattered 
senses.  He  merely  recognized  at  first  in  some  stunned  and 
shattered  fashion  that  he  was  well  out  of  the  fatal  train,  and 
that  a  dozen  sufferers  lay  stretched  in  evident  pain  and  danger 
on  the  low  bank  of  earth  beside  him. 

For  all  the  i>assengers  had  not  fared  so  well  in  their  escape  as 
he  himself  had  done.  Many  of  them  had  suilered  serious  hurt 
in  their  mad  jump  from  the  open  doorway,  alighting  on  jagged 
points  of  broken  stone,  or  rolling  down  the  sides  of  the  steep  ravine 
into  the  diy  bed  of  the  winter  torrent.  The  least  injured  turned 
with  one  accord  to  help  and  tend  their  wounded  companions. 
But  as  for  the  train  Its-elf,  it  had  simply  disappeared.  It  was  as 
though  it  had  never  been.  Scarcely  a  sign  of  it  showed  on  the 
unruffled  water.  Tailing  sheer  from  the  edge  of  that  precipitous 
crag  into  the  deep  bay,  it  had  sunk  like  a  stone  at  once  to  the 
very  bottom.  Only  a  few  fragments  of  broken  wreckage  appeared 
here  and  there  floating  loose  upon  the  surface.  Hardly  a  token 
remained  beside  to  show  the  outer  world  where  that  whole  long 
line  of  laden  carriages  had  toppled  over  bodily  into  the  profound 
green  depths  that  still  smiled  so  sweetly  between  Eoquebrune 
and  Mentone. 

For  a  while,  distracted  by  this  fresh  horror,  "Warren  could 
only  think  of  the  dead  and  wounded.  His  own  torn  and  blood- 
stained condition  excited  no  more  attention  or  curiosity  now  on 
the  part  of  bystanders  than  that  of  many  others  among  his  less 
fortunate  fellow-passengers.  Nor  did  ho  even  reflect  with  any 
serious  realization  that  Elsie  was  saved  and  his  own  character 
practically  vindicated.  The  new  shock  had  deadened  the  sense 
and  vividness  of  the  old  one.  In  the  face  of  so  awful  and  general 
a  calamity  as  this,  his  own  private  fears  and  doubts  and  anxieties 
seemed  to  shrink  for  the  moment  into  absolute  insignificance. 

In  time,  however,  it  began  slowly  to  dawn  upon  his  bewildered 
mind  that  other  4rains  might  come  up  from  Monaco  or  Mentone 
and  dash  madly  among  the  broken  dtbria  of  the  shattered 


THE  CAP  MARTIN  CATASTROPHE. 


315 


carriages.  Whatever  cauped  their  own  accident  might  canso 
accidents  also  to  approaching  engines.  Moreover,  tho  -wounded 
Iny  scattered  about  on  all  sides  npon  the  track,  some  of  them  in 
a  condition  in  which  it  might  indeed  be  difTicnlt  or  even  danger- 
ous to  remove  them.  Somebody  must  certainly  go  forward  to 
Mentono  to  warn  the  chef  de  gave,  and  to  fetch  up  assistance. 
After  a  hurried  consultation  with  his  nearest  neigiibours, 
AYarren  took  upon  himself  the  task  of  messenger.  He  started 
off  at  once  on  this  needful  errand,  and  plnnped  with  a  hefrt 
now  strangely  aroused  into  tiio  dctjp  darkness  of  the  last 
remaining  tunnel. 

His  sprained  ankle  caused  him  terrible  pain  at  every  step; 
but  the  pain  itself,  joined  with  the  consciousness  of  performing 
an  imperative  duty,  kept  his  mind  from  dwelling  too  much  for 
the  moment  on  his  own  altered  yet  perilous  situation.  As  ho 
di  agged  one  foot  wearily  after  the  other  through  that  long  tunnel, 
his  thoughts  concentrated  themselves  for  the  time  being  on  but 
one  object — to  reach  Mentone  and  prevent  any  further  serious 
accident. 

When  he  had  arrived  at  the  station,  however,  and  despatched 
help  along  the  line  to  the  other  sulTerers  from  the  terrible 
disaster,  he  had  time  to  reflect  in  peace  for  a  while  upon  the 
Budden  change  this  great  public  calamity  had  wrought  in  his 
own  private  position.  The  danger  of  misapprehension  had 
been  removed  by  the  accident  as  if  by  magic.  Unless  he  himself 
chose  to  reveal  the  facts,  no  soul  on  earth  need  ever  know  a 
word  of  that  desperate  struggle  with  mad  Hugh  Massinger  in 
the  wrecked  railway  carriage.  Even  supposing  the  bodies  were 
ultimately  dredged  up  or  recovered  by  divers,  no  suspicion 
could  now  possibly  attach  to  his  own  conduct.  Tho  wound  on 
Hugh's  head  would  doubtless  be  attributed  to  the  fall  alone; 
though  the  chance  of  the  body  being  recognizable  at  all  after  so 
horrible  a  catastrophe  would  indeed  be  slight,  considering  the 
way  the  carriages  had  doubled  up  like  so  much  trestle-work 
upon  one  another  before  finally  falling.  Elsie  was  saved ;  that 
much  at  least  was  now  secured.  She  need  know  nothing. 
Unless  he  himself  were  ever  tempted  to  tell  her  the  ghastly 
truth,  that  terrible  episode  of  the  death-struggle  in  the  doomed 
train  might  remain  for  ever  a  sealed  book  to  the  wouuin  for  whose 
Bake  it  had  all  been  enacted. 

Warren's  mind,  therefore,  was  made  up  at  once.  All  things 
considered,  it  had  become  a  sacred  duty  for  him  now  to  hold  his 
tongue  for  ever  and  ever  about  the  entire  incident.  No  man  is 
bound  to  criminate  himself;  above  all,  no  man  is  bound  to  ex- 
pose himself  when  innocent  to  an  unjust  yet  overwhelming  sus- 
picion of  murder.  But  that  was  not  ail.  Elsie's  happiness 
aepuuded  entii'ely  upon  his  rigorous  silence.    To  tell  the  whole 


li 

1 

I; 


346 


THIS  MORTAL  COIL. 


^^ 


truth,  even  to  her,  woniil  ^e  to  expose  her  shrinking  and  delicate 
nature  to  a  painful  shock,  as  profound  as  it  was  unnecessary, 
and  as  lasting  as  it  was  cruel.  The  more  he  thought  upon  it, 
the  more  plain  and  clear  did  his  duty  shine  forth  before  hirn. 
Chance  had  supplied  him  with  a  strange  means  of  honourable 
escape  from  what  had  seemed  at  first  sight  an  insoluble  dilemma. 
It  would  be  folly  and  worse,  under  his  present  conditions,  for 
him  to  refuse  to  profit  by  its  unconscious  suggestion. 

Yet  more :  he  must  decide  at  once  without  delay  upon  his  line 
of  action.  News  of  tho  catastrophe  would  be  telegraphed,  of 
course,  immediately  to  England.  Elsie  would  most  likely  learn 
the  whole  awful  episode  tliat  very  evening  at  her  hotel  in 
London :  he  could  hear  the  very  cries  of  tho  street  boys  ringing 
in  his  ears:  "Speslinl  Edition.  Appalling  Railway  Accident 
on  the  Eiviayrer  I  Great  Loss  of  Life !  A  Train  Precipitated 
into  the  Mediterranean  1 "  If  not,  she  would  at  any  rate  read 
the  alarming  news  in  an  agony  of  terror  in  the  morning  papers. 
She  knew  Warren  himself  was  returning  to  San  Rerao  by  that 
very  train.  She  did  not  know  that  Hugh  was  likely  to  be  one 
of  his  fellow-passengers.  She  must  not  hear  of  the  accident  for 
the  first  time  from  the  columns  of  the  Times  or  the  Fall  Mall 
Gazette.  He  must  telegraph  over  at  once  and  relieve  beforehand 
her  natural  anxiety  for  her  future  husband's  safety.  But  Hugh's 
name  and  fate  need  not  be  mentioned,  at  least  for  the  present; 
he  could  reserve  that  revelation  for  a  more  convenient  season. 
To  publish  it,  indeed,  would  be  in  part  to  incriminate  himself, 
or  at  least  to  arouse  unjust  suspicion. 

He  drove  to  the  telegraph  office,  worn  out  as  he  was  with  pain 
and  excitement,  and  despatched  a  hasty  message  that  moment 
to  Elsie :  "  There  has  been  a  terrible  accident  to  the  train  near 
Mentone,  but  1  am  not  hurt,  at  least  to  speak  of — only  a  few 
slight  sprains  and  bruises.  Particulars  in  papers.  Affectionately, 
AVauukn."  And  then  he  drove  back  to  tho  scouo  of  tho 
catastrophe. 

It  was  a  week  before  all  the  bodies  were  dredged  up  by  relaj'S 
of  divers  from  the  wreck  of  that  ill-fated  and  submerged  train. 
Hugh  Massinger's  was  one  of  the  last  to  be  recovered.  It  was 
found,  minus  a  large  part  of  tho  clothing.  The  sea  had  torn  oif 
his  coat  and  shirt.  The  eleven  thousand  pounds  in  French 
bank-notes  never  turned  up  at  all  again.  His  money  indeed  had 
perished  with  him. 

They  buried  all  that  remained  of  that  volcanic  life  on  the 
sweet  and  laughing  hillside  at  Mentone.  A  plain  marble  cross 
marks  the  spot  where  he  rests.  On  the  plinth  stand  graven 
those  prophetio  lines  from  tho  plaintive  proem  to  "  A  Life's 
Philosophy  "— 


NEXT  OF  KIN   WANTED.  317 

*•  Here,  by  the  haven  with  the  hoary  trees, 
O  iiery  poet's  heart,  lie  still : 
No  longer  strive  amid  tempestuous  seas 
To  curb  Avild  waters  to  thy  lurid  will. 
Above  thy  grave 
Wan  olives  wave. 
And  oleanders  court  deep7laden  bees." 

That  nought  of  fulfilment  might  be  wanting  to  his  prayer, 
Warren  Relf  with  his  own  hand  planted  a  blushing  oleander 
above  ihe  mound  where  that  fiery  poet's  heart  lay  still  for 
ev.;r  He  had  nothing  but  pity  in  his  soul  for  Hugh's  wasted 
powers.  A  splendid  life,  marred  in  the  making  by  its  owu 
lieadstrong  folly.  And  Winifred,  who  loved  him,  and  whose 
heart  ho  broke,  lay  silent  in  the  self-same  grave  beside  him. 


CHAPTEE  LI. 
\ 

KEXT  OF   KIN  WANTED. 

The  rocnvery  of  Hugh's  body  from  the  shattered  train  gave 
Warren  Relf  otie  needful  grain  of  internal  comfort.  Ho  identi- 
fied that  pale  and  wounded  corpse  with  reverent  care,  and 
waited  in  solemn  suspense  and  unspoken  anxiety  for  the  result 
of  the  customary  post-mortem  examination.  The  doctors'  report 
reassured  his  soul.  Death  had  resulted,  so  the  medical  evidence 
conclusively  proved,  not  from  the  violent  injuries  observed  on 
the  skull,'and  apparently  produced,  they  said,  by  a  blow  against 
the  carriage  door,  but  from  asphyxiation,  due  to  drowning. 
Hugh  was  still  alive,  then,  when  the  train  went  over  !  His  herfrt 
still  beat  and  his  breath  still  came  and  went  feebly  till  the 
actual  moment  of  the  final  catastrophe.  It  was  the  accident, 
not  Warren's  hand,  that  killed  him.  Innocent  as  Warren  knew 
himself  to  be,  he  was  glad  to  kani  from  this  authoritative  source 
that  even  unintentionally  he  had  not  made  himself  Hugh  Mas- 
singer's  accidt    *al  executioner. 

But  in  any  case  they  must  break  the  news  gently  to  Elsif. 
Warren's  presence  was  needed  in  the  south  for  the  time  being, 
to  see  after  Winifred's  funeral  and  other  necessary  domestic 
arrangements.  So  Edie  wont  over  to  England  on  the  very  first 
day  after  the  fact  of  Hugh's  disai)pcarance  in  the  missing  train 
had  become  generally  known  to  the  little  world  of  San  Eemo,  to 
soften  the  shock  for  her  with  sisterly  tenderness.  By  a  piece  of 
rare  good  fortune,  Hugh  Massinger's  name  was  not  mentioned  at 
all  in  the  earlier  telegrams,  even  after  it  was  fairly  well  known  at 
Mentone  and  Monte  Carlo  that  the  lucky  winner,  whoso  success 
was  in  everybody's  mouth  just  thou,  had  pjrished  iu  ouo  of  the 


343 


THIS  MORTAL   COIL, 


lost  carriages.  The  despatches  only  spoke  in  vague  terms  of 
"  an  English  gentleman  lately  arrived  on  the  Kiviera,  who  had 
all  but  succeeded  in  breaking  the  bank  that  day  at  Monte  Carlo, 
and  was  returning  to  San  llemo,  elated  by  success,  with  eleven 
thousand  pounds  of  winnings  in  his  pocket."  It  was  not  in  the 
least  likely  that  Elsie  would  dream  of  recognizing  her  newly 
bereaved  cousin  under  this  highly  improDahle  and  generalized 
description — especially  when  Winifred,  as  she  well  knew,  was 
lying  dead  meanwhile,  the  victim  of  his  cold  and  selfish  cruelty, 
at  the  pension  at  San  Kemo.  Edie  would  be  the  first  to  bring  her 
the  strange  and  terrible  news  of  Hugh's  sudden  death.  Warren 
himself  stopped  behind  at  Mentone,  as  in  duty  bound,  to  identify 
the  body  formally  at  the  legal  inquiry. 

He  had  another  reason,  too,  for  wishing  to  break  the  news  to 
Elsie  through  Edie's  mouth  rather  than  personally.  Tor  Edie 
knew  nothing,  of  course,  of  the  deadly  struggle  in  the  doomed 
train,  of  thah  hand-to-hand  battle  for  life  and  honour;  and  she 
could  therefore  with  truth  unfold  the  whole  story  exactly  as 
Warren  wished  Elsie  first  to  learn  it.  For  her,  there  was 
nothing  more  to  tell  than  that  Hugh,  with  incredible  levity 
and  brutal  want  of  feeling,  had  gone  over  to  Monte  Carlo  to 
gamble  openly  at  the  public  tables,  on  the  very  days  while  his 
})oor  young  wife,  killed  inch  by  inch  by  his  settled  neglect,  lay 
dead  in  her  lonely  lodging  at  San  Renio :  that  he  had  returned 
a  couple  of  evenings  later  with  his  ill-gotten  gains  upon  the 
fated  train :  and  that,  falling  over  into  the  sea  with  the  carriages 
from  which  Warren  just  barely  escaped  with  dear  life,  he  was 
drowned  in  his  place  in  one  of  the  shattered  and  sunken  compart- 
ments. That  was  all ;  and  that  was  bad  enough  in  all  conscience. 
What  need  to  burden  Elsie's  gentle  soul  any  further  with  the 
more  hideous  concomitants  of  that  unspeakable  tragedy  ? 

Elsie  bore  the  news  with  far  greater  fortitude  than  Edie  in 
her  most  sanguine  mood  could  have  expected.  Winifred's  death 
had  sunk  bo  deep  into  the  fibres  of  her  soul  that  Hugh's  seemed 
to  affect  her  far  less  by  comparison.  She  had  learnt  to  know 
him  now  in  all  his  baseness.  It  was  the  recognition  of  the  man's 
own  inmost  nature  that  had  cost  her  dearest.  **  Let  us  never 
speak  of  him  again,  dear  Warren,"  she  wrote  to  her  betrothed, 
a  few  days  later.  "  Let  him  be  to  us  as  though  he  had  never 
existed.  Let  his  name  bo  not  so  much  as  mentioned  between  us. 
It  pains  ami  grieves  me  ten  thousand  times  more,  Warren,  to 
think  that  for  such  a  man's  sake  as  ho  was,  I  should  so  long 
have  refused  to  accept  the  love  of  such  a  man  as  I  now  know 
you  to  be." 

Those  are  the  hardest  words  a  woman  can  uttor.  To  unsay 
their  love  is  to  women  unendurable.  But  Elsie  no  longer 
shrank  froin  unsayiug  it.    Siiame  aud  remorse  for  her  shattered 


NEXT  OF  KIN  WANTED, 


349 


ideal  possessed  her  soul.     She  knew  she  had  done  the  trne  man 
wrong  by  so  long  rejectiLg  hitn  for  the  sake  of  the  false  one. 

At  sand-girt  Whitestrand,  meanwhile,  all  was  tnrmoil  and 
confusion.    The  news  of  the  young  Squire's  tragic  death,  follow- 
ing so  close  at  the  heel  of  his  frail  little  wife's,  spread  horror  and 
shame  through  the  whole  community.    The  vicar's  wife  was  all 
agog  with  excitement.    The  reticule  trembled  on  her  palpitating  1 
wrist  as  she  went  the  round  of  her  neighbours  with  the  surprising 
intelligence.    Nobody  knew  what  might  happen  next,  now  the 
last  of  the  Meyseys  was  dead  and  gone,  while  the  sandbanks 
were  spreading  half  a  mile  to  seaward,  and  the  very  river  was 
turned  from  its  course  by  encroaching  hummocks  into  a  new- 
cut  channel.     The  mortgagees,  to  be  sure,  were  safe  with  their 
money.   Not  only  was  the  property  now  worth  on  a  rough  com- 
putation almost  as  much  as  it  had  ever  been,  but  Winifred's  life 
had  been  heavily  insured,  and  the  late  Mr.  Massinger'p  estate, 
the  family  attorney  remarked  with  a  cheerful  smile,  was  far 
more  than  solvent — in  fact,  it  would  prove  a  capital  inheritance 
for  some  person  or  persons  unknown,  the  heiis-at-law  and  next- 
of-kin  of  the  last  possessor.     But  good  business  lay  in  store,  no 
doubt,  for  the  profession  still.    Deceased  had  probably  died 
intestate.    Endless  questions  would  thus  be  opened  out  in  deli- 
cious vistas  before  the  entranced  legal  vision.    The  marriage 
being  subsequent  to  the  late  Married  Woman's  Property  Act, 
Mrs.  Massinger's  will,  if  any,  must  be  found  and  proved.    The 
next-of-kin  and  heir-at-law  must  be  hunted  up.     Protracted 
litigation  would  probably  ensue ;  rewards  would  be  oflFered  for 
certificates  of  birth ;  records  of  impossible  marriages  would  be 
freely  advertised  for,  with  tempting  suggestions  of  pecuniary, 
recompense  to  the  lucky  discoverer.    Research  would  be  stimu- 
lated in  parish   clerks;    aflBdavits  would  be  sworn  to  with 
charming  recklessness;  rival  claimants  would  commit  nnblush- 
ing  alternative  perjuries  on  their  own  account,  with  frank  dis- 
regard of  common  probability.    It  would  rain  fees.    The  estate 
would  dissolve  itself  bodily  by  slow  degrees  in  a  quagmire  of 
expenses.     And  all  for  the  benefit  of  the  good  attorneys!    The 
family  lawyer,  in  the  character  of  Danae— for  this  occasion  only, 
and  without  prejudice — would  hold  out  his  hands  to  catch  tho 
golden  shower.    A  learned  profession  would  no  doubt  profit  in 
the  end  to  a  distinct  amount  by  the  late  Mr.  Massinger's 
touching  disregard  of  testamentary  provision  for  his  unknown 
relations. 

Alas  for  the  prospects  of  the  learned  gentlemen !  The  question 
of  inheritance  proved  itself  in  the  end  far  easier  and  leas  com- 
plex than  the  family  attorney  in  his  professional  zeal  had  at 
first  anticipated.    Everything  unravelled  itself  with  disgusting 
23 


350 


THIS  MORTAL  COIL, 


Ill 


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■'•11 


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.simphVity.  The  estate  inip;1it  almost  as  well  have  been  tinen" 
cniiiberea.  The  late  Mrs.  Massinger  had  left  no  will,  and  the 
property  had  therefore  devolved  direct  by  common  law  upon 
her  surviving  husband.  This  was  awkward.  If  only  now,  any 
grain  of  doubt  had  existed  in  any  way  as  to  the  fact  that  the 
late  Mrs.  Massinger  had  predeceased  her  unfortunate  husband, 
legal  acumen  might  doubtless  have  suggested  innumerable 
grounds  of  action  for  impossible  claimants  on  eitlier  side  of  the 
two  families.  But  unha]3pily  for  the  exorcise  of  legal  acumen, 
the  case  as  it  stood  was  all  most  horribly  plain  sailing.  Hugh 
Massinger,  Esquire,  having  inherited  in  due  course  from  hia 
deceased  wife,  tlie  estate  must  go  in  the  first  place  to  Hugh 
Massinger  himself,  in  person.  And  Hugh  Massinger  himself 
having  died  intestate,  it  must  go  in  the  next  place  to  Hugh 
Massinger's  nearest  representative.  True,  there  still  remained 
the  agreeable  and  exciting  research  for  tlie  missing  heir-at-law ; 
but  the  pursuit  of  hunting  up  the  heir-at-law  to  a  given  known 
indisputable  possessor  is  as  nothing  in  the  eyes  of  a  keen  sports- 
man compared  with  the  Homeric  joy  of  battle  involved  in  the 
act  of  setting  the  representatives  of  two  rival  and  uncertain 
claims  to  fight  it  out,  tooth  and  nail  together,  on  the  free  and 
open  arena  of  the  Court  of  Probate.  It  was  with  a  sigh  of 
regret,  therefore,  that  the  family  attorney,  good  easy  man,  drew 
lip  the  advertisement  which  closed  for  ever  his  vain  hopes  of  a 
disputed  succession  between  the  moribund  houses  of  Massinger 
and  Meysey,  and  confined  his  possibilities  of  lucrative  litigation 
to  exploiting  the  house  of  Massinger  alone,  for  his  own  use, 
enjoyment,  and  fruition. 

It  was  some  two  or  three  weeks  after  Hugh  Massinger's  tragic 
death  that  Edie  Eelf  chanced  to  observe  in  the  Agony  Column 
of  that  morning's  Times  a  notice  couched  in  the  following  pre- 
cise and  poetical  language : — 

"  Hugh  Massinger,  Esquire,  deceased,  late  of  Whitestrand 
Hall,  in  the  County  of  Suffolk. — Any  person  or  persons  claiming 
to  represent  the  heir  or  heirs-at-law  and  next  of  kin  of  the 
above-named  gentleman  (who  died  at  Mentone,  in  the  Depart- 
ment of  the  Alpes  Maritimes,  in  the  French  Republic,  on  or 
about  the  17th  day  of  November  last  past)  are  hereby  requoF.ted 
to  apply  immediately  to  Alfred  Hederden,  Esq.,  Whitestrand, 
Suffolk,  solicitor  to  the  said  Hugh  Massinger." 

Edie  mentioned  the  rmtter  at  once  to  Warren,  who  had  come 
over  from  France  as  soon  as  he  had  completed  the  necessary 
arrangements  at  San  Ecmo  and  Mentono ;  but  Warren  heard 
it  all  with  extreme  disinclination.  He  couldn't  bear  even  to 
allude  to  the  fact  in  speaking  to  Elsie.  Directly  or  indirectly, 
he  could  never  inherit  the  estate  of  the  man  whose  life  he  had 
been  no  nearly  iuslrumcutal  iu  shortening.    And  if  Elsio  was 


NEXT  OF  KIN  WANTED, 


351 


soon,  as  lie  hoped,  to  become  his  "wifo,  he  would  necessarily  par- 
ticipate in  whatever  benefit  Elsie  might  derive  from  inheriting 
the  relics  of  Hugh  Massingcr's  ill-won  Whitestrand  property. 

"No,  no,"  he  said.  "The  estate  was  simply  the  price  of 
blood.  He  married  that  poor  little  woman  for  nothing  else  but 
fur  the  sake  of  Whitestrand.  He  killed  her  by  slow  degrees 
through  his  neglect  and  cruelty.'  If  he  hadn't  married  her,  no 
would  never  have  been  master  of  that  wretched  place :  if  ho 
hadn't  married  her,  he  would  have  had  nothing  of  his  own  to 
leave  to  Elsie.  I  can't  touch  it,  and  I  won't  touch  it.  So  that's 
flat,  Edie.  It's  the  price  of  blood.  Let  it,  too,  perish  with 
him." 

" Bui  ouf^htn't  yon  at  least  to  mention  it  to  Elsie?"  Edie 
asked,  with  her  plain  straightforward  English  common-sense. 
"  It's  her  business  more  than  it's  yours,  you  know,  Warren. 
Oughtn't  you  at  least  to  give  her  the  option  of  accepting  or 
refusing  her  own  property  ? — It's  very  kind  of  you,  of  course, 
to  decide  for  her  beforehand  so  cavalierly. — Perhaps,  you  see, 
when  she  learns  she's  an  heiress,  she  may  be  inclined  to  transfer 
her  affections  elsewhere." 

Warren  smiled.  That  was  a  point  of  view  that  had  never 
occurred  to  him.  Your  male  lover  makes  so  sure  of  his  prey: 
ho  hardly  allows  in  his  own  mind  the  possibility  of  rejection. 
But  still  he  prevaricated.  "I  wouldn't  tell  her  about  it,  just 
yet  at  least,"  he  answered  hesitatingly.  "  We  don't  know,  after 
all,  that  Elsie's  really  the  heir-at-law  at  all,  if  it  comes  to  that. 
Let's  wait  and  see.  Perhaps  some  other  claimant  may  turn  up 
for  the  property." 

"Perhaps,"  Edie  replied,  with  her  oracular  brevity.  "And 
perhaps  not.  There's  nothing  on  earth  more  elastic  in  its  Own 
way  than  a  good  perhaps.  India-rubber  bands  are  just  mere 
child's  piny  to  it. — Suppose,  then,  we  pin  it  down  to  a  precise 
limit  of  time,  so  as  to  know  exactly  where  we  stand,  and  say 
that  if  the  estate  isn't  otherwise  claimed  within  six  weeks,  we'll 
break  it  to  Elsie,  and  allow  her  to  decide  for  herself  in  the 
matter?" 

"I3ut  how  shall  we  know  whether  it's  claimed  or  not?" 
Warren  asked  dubiously. 

"  My  dear,  there  exists  in  this  realm  of  England  a  useful 
institution  known  to  science  as  a  penny  post,  by  means  of 
which  a  letter  may  be  safely  and  inexpensively  conveyed  even 
to  so  remote  and  rndistinguished  a  personage  as  Alfred  Heber- 
deu,  Esquire,  solicitor  to  the  deceased,  Whitestrand,  Suffolk. — I 
propose,  in  fact,  to  '/rite  and  ask  him." 

Warren  groaned.  It  was  an  awkward  fix.  He  wished  he 
could  shirk  the  whole  horrid  business.  To  be  saddled  against 
your  will  with  a  landed  estate  that  you  dou't  want  is  a  predica- 


S62 


THIS  AORTAL  COIL, 


ment  that  seMom  disturbs  a  motlest  gentleman's  peace  of  mind 
anywhere.  But  he  saw  no  possible  way  out  of  the  odd  dilemma. 
Edie  was  rigut,  after  all,  no  doubt.  As  yet,  at  least,  he  had  no 
authority  to  answer  in  any  way  for  Elsie's  wishes.  If  she 
wanted  Whi^estrand,  it  was  hers  to  take  or  reject  as  she  wished, 
and  hers  only.  Still,  he  salved  his  conscience  with  the  con- 
solatory idea  that  it  was  not  ac  tually  compulsory  upon  him  to 
show  Elsie  any  legal  advertisement,  inquiry,  or  suggestion 
which  might  happen  to  emanate  from  the  solicitors  to  the  estate 
of  the  late  Hugh  Massinger.  So  far  as  he  had  any  official  cog- 
nizance of  the  facts,  indeed,  the  heirs,  executors,  and  assigns  of 
the  deceased  had  nothing  on  earth  to  do  in  any  way  with  Elsie 
Challoner,  of  San  Remo,  Italy.  Second  cousinhood  is  at  best  a 
very  vague  and  uncertain  form  of  relationship.  He  decided, 
therefore,  not  without  some  internal  qualms,  to  accept  Edie's 
suggested  compromise  for  the  present,  and  to  wait  patiently 
for  the  matter  in  hand  to  settle  itself  by  spontaneous  arrange- 
ment. 

But  Alfred  Heberden.  Esquire,  solicitor  to  the  deceased,  acted 
otherwise.  He  had  failed  to  draw  any  satisfactory  communi- 
cations in  answer  to  his  advertisement  save  one  from  a  bogus 
firm  of  so-called  Property  Agents,  the  proprietors  of  a  fallacious 
list  of  Next  of  Kin  Wanted,  and  cne  from  a  third-rate  pawn- 
broker in  the  Borough  Road  whose  wife's  aunt  had  once  married 
a  broken-down  railway  porter  of  the  name  of  Messenger,  from 
Weem  in  Shropshire,  and  who  considered  himself,  accordingly, 
the  obvioas  representative  and  heir-at-law  of  the  late  Hugh 
Massinger  of  the  Utter  Bar,  and  of  Whitestrand  Hall,  in  Suffolk, 
Esquire,  deceased  without  issue.  Neither  of  these  applications, 
however,  proving  of  sufficient  importance  to  engage  the  atten- 
tion of  Mr.  Alfred  Heberden's  legal  mind,  that  astute  gentleman 
proceeded  entirely  on  his  own  account  to  investigate  the  gene- 
alogy and  other  antecedents  of  Hugh  Massinger,  with  a  single 
eye  to  the  discovery  of  the  missing  inheritor  of  the  estate, 
envisaged  as  a  person  from  whom  natural  gratitude  would  prob- 
ably wring  a  substantial  solatium  to  the  good  attorney  who 
had  proved  his  title.  And  the  result  of  his  inquiries  into  the 
Massinger  pedigree  took  tangible  shape  at  last,  a  week  or  two 
later,  in  a  second  advertisement  of  a  more  exact  sort,  which 
Edie  Relf,  that  diligent  and  careful  studen*;  of  the  second 
column,  the  most  interesting  portion  of  the  whole  newspaper  to 
Eve's  like-minded  daugliters,  discovered  and  pondered  over 
one  foggy  morning  in  the  blissful  repose  of  128,  Bletchingley 
Koad,  South  Kensington. 

"Challoner:  Heir-at-law  and  Next  of  Kin  Wanted.  Estate 
of  HucH  Massinger,  Esquire,  deceased,  intestate. — If  this 
should  meet  the  eye  of  Elsie,  daughter  of  the  late  Kev.  H. 


THE  TANGLE  RESOLVES  ITSELF. 


853 


Challoner,  and  Eleanor  Jane  his  wife,  formerly  Eleanor  Jane 
Massinger,  of  Clmdleigh,  Devonshire,  she  is  requested  to  put 
herself  into  communication  with  Alfred  Hebekdcn,  Esq., 
AN'hitestrand,  Suffolk,  when  she  may  hear  of  something  greatly 
to  her  advantafie." 

Edie  took  the  paper  up  at  once  to  "Warren.  "For  'may' 
read  'will,*"  she  said  pointedly,  "liawyers  don't  advertise 
unless  they  know.  I  always  understood  Mr.  Massinger  had  no 
living  relations  except  Elsie.  This  question  has  reached  boil- 
i«ig-point  now.  You'll  have  to  speak  to  her  after  that  about 
the  matter." 


CHAPTER  LIL 


THE  TANGLE  RESOLVES  ITSELF. 

*'  You  must  never,  never  take  it,  Elsie,"  Warren  said  earnestly, 
as  Elsie  laid  down  the  paper  once  more  and  wiped  a  tear  from 
her  eye  nervously.  "  It  came  to  him  through  that  poor  broken- 
hearted little  woman,  you  know.  He  should  never  have  married 
her;  he  should  never  have  owned  it.  It  was  never  truly  or 
honestly  his,  and  therefore  it  isn't  yours  by  right.  I  couldn't 
bear,  myself,  to  touch  a  single  penny  of  it." 

Elsie  looked  up  at  him  with  a  twitching  face.  "  Do  you  make 
that  a  condition,  Warren?"  she  asked,  all  tremulous. 

Warren  paused  and  hesitated,  irresolute,  for  a  moment.  "  Do 
I  make  it  a  condition?"  he  answered  slowly.  "My  darling, 
how  can  I  possibly  talk  of  making  conditions  or  bargains  with 
you?  But  I  could  never  bear  to  think  that  wife  of  mine  would 
touch  one  penny  of  that  ill-gotten  money." 

•*  Warren,"  Elsie  said,  in  a  very  soft  voice— they  were  alone 
in  the  room  and  they  talked  like  lovers — "  I  said  to  myself  more 
than  once  in  the  old,  old  days— after  all  that  was  past  and  done 
for  ever,  you  know,  dear — I  said  to  myself:  *I  would  never 
marry  any  man  now,  not  even  if  I  loved  him — loved  him  truly 
—unless  I  had  money  of  my  own  to  bring  him.'  And  when  I 
began  to  know  I  was  getting  to  love  you — when  I  couldn't  any 
longer  conceal  from  myself  the  truth  that  your  tendernesy  and 
your  devotion  had  made  me  love  you  against  my  will — 1  said  to 
myself  again,  more  tirmly  than  ever:  *I  will  never  let  him 
take  me  thus  penniless.  I  will  never  burdon  him  with  one 
more  mouth  to  feed,  one  more  person  to  house  and  clothe  and 
supply,  one  more  life  to  toil  and  moil  and  slave  for.  Even  as 
it  is,  he  can't  pursue  his  art  as  he  ought  to  pursue  it ;  he  can't 
give  free  piny  to  his  genius  as  his  genius  demands,  because  he 


354 


THIS  MORTAL   COIL. 


has  to  turn  asido  from  his  own  noWo  anrl  oxqnisito  ideals  to 
suit  the  market  and  to  earn  money.  I  won't  any  further  shackle 
his  arm.  I  won't  any  furtlier  cramp  his  han^l — his  hand  that 
should  bo  free  as  the  air  to  pursue  unlmmpercd  his  own  grand 
and  beautiful  calling.  I  will  never  marry  him  unless  1  can 
bring  him  at  least  enough  to  support  myself  upon.' — And  just 
the  other  day,  you  remember,  Warren — that  day  at  San  Ilemo 
when  I  admitted  at  last  what  I  had  known  so  long  without  ever 
admitting  it,  that  I  loved  you  better  than  life  itself— I  said  to 
you  still :  *1  am  yours,  at  heart.  Uut  I  can't  be  yours  really  for 
a  long  time  yet.  No  matter  why,  I  shall  be  yours  still  in  my- 
self, lor  all  that.' — Well,  I'll  tell  )ou  Jiow  why  I  said  those 
words. — Even  then,  dailing,  1  Icit  I  could  never  marry  you 
penniless." 

She  paused,  and  looked  up  at  him  with  an  earnest  look  in  her 
true  gray  eyes,  those  exquisite  eyes  of  hers  that  no  lover  could 
see  without  an  intense  thrill  through  his  inmost  being.  Warnn 
thrilled  in  response,  and  wondered  what  could  next  be  coming. 
"  And  you're  going  to  tell  me,  Elsie,"  he  said,  with  a  sigli, 
"that  you  can't  marry  me  unless  you  feel  free  to  accupt  White- 
strand?" 

Elsie  laid  her  head  witli  womanly  confidence  on  his  strong 
shoulder.  "I'm  going  to  toll  ■  u,  darling,"  she  answered,  with 
a  sudden  outburst  of  ur-^hcck  a  emotion,  "  that  I'll  marry  you 
now,  Whitestrand  or  nj  Whitestrand.  I'll  do  as  you  wish  in 
this  and  in  everything.  I  lovo  you  so  dearly  to-day,  Warren, 
that  1  can  even  burden  you  with  myself,  if  you  wish  it :  I  cnn 
throw  myself  upon  you  without  reserve :  I  can  take  b;i<'k  all  1 
ever  thought  or  said,  and  be  happy  anywhere,  if  only  you'll 
have  me,  and  make  me  your  wife,  and  love  me  always  as  1 
myself  love  you.  I  want  nothing  that  ever  was  his;  I  only 
want  to  be  yours,  W^arren." 

Nevertheless,  Mr.  Alfred  Heberden  did  within  one  week  of 
that  date  duly  proceed  in  proper  lorni  to  prove  the  claim  of 
Elsie  Challoner,  of  128,  Bletchingley  Koad,  in  the  parish  of  Ken- 
sington, spinster,  of  no  occupaticm,  to  the  iutestuto  estate  of 
Hugh  Massinger,  Esquire,  deceased,  of  Whitest) and  Hall,  in  the 
county  of  Suffolk. 

The  fact  is,  an  estate,  however  acquired,  must  needs  belong 
to  somebody  somewhere ;  and  since  either  Elsie  must  taku  it 
herself,  or  let  some  other  person  with  a  worse  claim  endeavour 
to  obtain  it,  Warren  and  she  decided,  upon  fitrther  considera- 
tion, that  it  would  be  better  for  her  to  disi)ense  the  revenues  of 
Whitestrand  for  the  public  good,  than  to  let  them  fall  b}  default 
into  the  greedy  clutches  of  the  enterprising  pawnbrolc*  r  in  the 
Borough  Eoad,  or  be  swallowed  u]>  for  his  own  advantage  by 


THE  TANOLE  RESOLVES  ITSELF, 


355 


any  Ririiilar  abporbcnt  mcrlinm  elsewhere.  From  the  very  first, 
indeed,  they  were  both  firmly  determined  never  to  spend  one 
sliilliu^  of  the  estate  upon  their  own  pleasures  or  their  own 
necessities,  lint  if  wealth  is  to  be  dispensed  in  doinj*  good  at 
all,  it  is  best  tliat  intelligent  and  sin^le-iieurted  peoi>lo  should 
so  dispense  it,  rather  than  leave  it  to  the  lender  mercies  of  tiiat 
amiable  but  somewhat  indelinitQ  institution,  the  Court  of 
Cliancery.  Warren  and  Elsie  decided,  tluneforo,  at  last  to  ' 
prosecute  their  legal  claim,  regarding  themselves  as  trustees  for 
the  needy  or  'iel])less  of  Great  Britain  generally,  «nd  to  sell 
the  estate,  when  once  obtained,  for  the  first  cash  price  offereil, 
investing  the  sum  in  consols  in  their  own  names,  as  a  virtual 
trust-fund,  to  be  employed  by  themselves  for  such  special 
purposes  as  seemed  best  to  both  iu  the  free  exercise  of  their 
own  full  and  untettered  discretion.  So  Mr.  Alfred  Heberden's 
advertisement  bore  good  fruit  in  duo  season ;  and  Elsie  did 
at  last,  in  name  at  least,  inherit  the  manor  and  estate  ot 
Wliitestraiid. 

Hut  ueit  ler  of  them  touched  one  penny  of  the  lilood-money. 
They  kept  it  all  apart  as  a  sacred  fund,  to  bo  used  only  in  the 
best  way  they  knew  for  the  objects  that  VViuilred  iu  her  highest 
moods  niight  most  have  approved  of. 

And  this,  as  Elsie  justly  remarked,  was  really  the  very  best 
possible  arrangement.  To  be  sure,  she  no  longer  felt  that  shy 
old  feeling  against  coming  to  Warren  unprovided  and  penniless. 
(She  was  content  now,  as  a  wife  should  be,  to  trust  herself 
implicitly  and  entirely  to  her  husband's  hands.  Warren's  art 
of  late  had  every  day  been  more  sought  after  by  those  who  hold 
in  their  laps  the  absolute  disposal  of  the  world's  wealth,  and 
tlicre  was  far  less  fear  than  formerly  that  the  ctire.-!  of  a  house- 
hold would  entail  on  him  the  miserable  and  degrading  necessity 
for  lowering  his  own  artistic  standard  to  nieet  the  inferior 
wishes  and  tastes  of  possible  purchasers,  with  their  vulgar 
idtals.  But  it  was  also  something  for  each  of  them  to  feel  that 
the  other  had  thus  been  seriously  tried  by  the  final  test  of  this 
world's  gold — tried  in  actual  practice  and  not  found  wanting. 
Few  pass  through  that  sordid  crucible  unscathed;  those  that  do 
are  of  the  purest  metal. 

On  the  very  day  when  Warren  and  Elsie  finally  fixed  the  dcto 
for  their  approaching  wedding,  the  calm  and  happy  little  bride- 
elect  came  in  with  first  tidings  of  the  accomplished  arrangement, 
all  tremors  and  blushes,  to  her  faithful  Edie.  To  her  great 
chagrin,  h  )wever,  her  future  sister-in-law  received  the  news  of 
this  proximate  family  event  with  an  absolute  minimum  of 
surprise  or  excitement.  "You  don't  seem  to  bo  in  the  least 
astonished,  dear,''  Elsie  cried,  somewhat  piqued  at  her  cool 


86G 


THIS  MORTAL   COIL. 


n 
N 


v'    I'i 


reception.  "  Why,  anybody'd  say,  to  see*  the  way  you  take  it, 
you'd  known  it  all  a  clear  twelvemonth  ago!" 

"  So  I  did,  luy  child— all  except  the  mere  trifling  detail  of 
the  date,"  Eciio  answered  at  once  with  prompt  common-scnso, 
and  an  arch  look  from  under  her  dark  eyebrows.  "  In  fact  1 
arranged  it  all  myself  most  satisfactorily  beforehand.  But  what 
I  was  really  thinking  of  just  now  was  siniply  this — why 
shouldn't  one  cake  do  duty  for  both  at  once,  Elsie  V  " 

"For  both  at  once,  EdioV  For  me  and  Warren?  WTiy,  of 
course,  one  cake  always  docs  do  for  the  bride  and  bridegroom 
together,  doesn't  it  ?  I  never  heard  of  anybody  having  u  couple, 
darling." 

"  What  a  sweet  little  silly  you  are,  you  dear  old  goose,  yon ! 
Are  you  two  the  only  marriageable  people  in  the  universe,  then  ? 
I  didn't  mean  for  you  and  Warren  at  ull,  of  comso ;  I  meant  for 
you  and  myself,  stupid." 

"You  and  myself!"  Elsie  echoed,  bewildered.  "You  aud 
myself,  did  you  say,  Edie '? " 

"  Why,  yes,  you  dear  old  blind  bat,  you,"  Edie  went  on 
placidly,  with  an  abstracted  air;  "  wo  might  get  them  both  over 
the  same  day,  I  think  seriously  :  kill  two  weddings,  so  to  spetik, 
with  one  parson.  They're  such  a  terrible  uuisanuo  in  a  house 
always." 

"Two  -weddings,  my  dear  Edie?"  Elsie  cried  in  surprise. 
"  Why,  what  on  earth  are  you  ever  ta.kiug  about?  1  don't 
understand  you." 

"  Well,  Mr.  Hatherley's  a  very  good  critic,"  Edie  answered, 
with  a  twinkle:  "he's  generally  admitted  to  have  excellent 
tuste ;  and  he  ventured  the  other  day  on  a  critical  opinion  in 
my  presence  which  did  honour  at  once  to  the  acuteuess  of  his 
perceptions  and  the  soundness  and  depth  of  his  U3sthetic  judg- 
ment. Ho  told  me  to  my  face,  with  the  utmost  gravity,  1  was 
the  very  sweetest  and  prettiest  girl  in  all  Euglaud." 

"And  what  did  you  say  to  that,  Edie?"  Elsie  asked,  amused, 
with  some  dawning  perception  of  the  real  meaning  of  this  queer 
badinage. 

"1  told  him,  my  dear,  I'd  always  considered  him  the  ablest 
and  best  of  living  authorities  on  artistic  matters,  and  that  it 
would  ill  become  my  native  modesty  to  differ  from  his  opinion 
on  such  an  important  question,  in  which,  perhaps,  that  native 
modesty  itself  might  unduly  bias  me  to  au  incorrect  judgment 
in  the  opposite  direction.  So  then  he  enforced  his  critical  view 
in  a  practical  way  by  promptly  kissing  me." 

"  And  you  didn't  object  ?  " 

"  On  the  contrary,  my  child,  I  rather  liked  it  than  otherwise." 

"After  which?" 

"  x\.fter  which  he  proceeded  to  review  his  own  character  and 


p 


THE  TANGLE  RESOLVES  ITSELF. 


357 


prospects  in  a  depreciatory  way,  tliat  kul  nio  pravely  to  doul)t 
t ho  accuracy  of  liis  jn(lj»ment  in  that  respect;  and  he  finished 
up  at  last  l)y  laying  tlioso  very  objects  ho  had  just  been  dcpro- 
ciating.his  hand  and  lieart,  at  the  foot  of  the  throne,  metaphori- 
cally Kpeaking,  for  the  sweetcBt  girl  iu  all  England  to  do  as  slio 
liktd — accept  or  reject  them." 

"And  the  sweetest  girl  in  all.  England?" Elsio  asked, 

smiling. 

**  Unconditionnlly  accepted  with  the  most  ])leasing  prompti- 
tude.— You  see,  my  dear,  it'll  be  such  a  splendid  thing  for 
Warren,  when  ho  sets  up  house,  to  huvo  an  influential  art-critic 
bound  over,  as  it  were,  not  to  speak  evil  against  him,  by  being 
converted  beforehand  into  his  own  brother-in-law. — Besides 
M'hicii,  you  know,  1  happen,  Elsie,  to  be  ever  so  much  iu  lovo 
with  him." 

*'  That's  a  good  thing,  Edie." 

"  My  child,  I  consider  it  such  an  extremely  good  thing  that 
I  ran  upstairs  at  once  and  had  a  regular  jolly  old-fashioned 
cry  over  it. — Elsie,  Arthur's  a  dear  good  fellow. — And  you  and  1 
can  be  married  together.  We've  always  been  sisters,  ever  since 
we've  known  each  ulhcr.  Aud  now  ym'M  be  bi^itcru  uvcu  mure 
than  evux." 


THE   END. 


^1 


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""thor 

A  nev> 


